


Spit and Polish

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky likes to flirt with Steve and bring him gifts from missions, Bucky likes to impress the ladies, Courtship, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fluff, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Smut in the Epilogue, More importantly he likes to impress Steve, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Souvenirs, Steve Blushes A Lot, Winter Soldier Bucky, the author is a horrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-16 05:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13629501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Steve Roger’s best friend, Bucky Barnes, has always been the most charming fella on the block (in his own words).





	1. Smile with Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This story is my auction prize for haspel-and-berry, who won it from me in the Fandom Trumps Hate 2018 auction. I was honored that this kind and generous person chose my work to bid on. Artwork will eventually accompany this story, so stay tuned.

“Bucky, it’s your turn, already!” Steve whined as he watched him crane his neck around for the third time that afternoon. Bucky had the good grace to blush as he returned to their game of jacks. He bounced the small, red rubber ball a couple of times for luck and managed to scoop up two.

“Sheesh, quit rushin’ me, Stevie.”

“Well, you were takin’ too long. What’s so interesting that you keep lookin’ over there?”

“Nothin’,” Bucky told him, shrugging and adjusting his gray wool cap. Steve took his own turn and only managed to pick up one. But Bucky turned again a moment later, making Steve exclaim in disgust.

He finally followed his friend’s gaze toward a small group of girls playing hopscotch on the blacktop, hopping into the panes of a crudely drawn grid, just missing the chalked lines with their Mary Janes.

“Why do ya keep starin’ over there, Buck?”

“M’not.”

“Y’are too!”

“It’s nothin’, Stevie. Quit askin’ me.” But before they could resume their game, they both noticed one of the girls, Bonnie, glancing back at them, with her pebble clutched in her fist for her next turn. She was a gap-toothed blonde with blue eyes and dimples when she smiled, wearing a light blue dress with a calico pinafore. A hint of a smile crossed her face, but she ducked her head down and cast her pebble, hitting the third block. She hopped nimbly, making the hem of her dress ride up a little so it exposed a small, red scrape on her left knee.

 

An inkling of suspicion drifted down onto Steve’s consciousness. “Hey,” he accused, “do you _like_ her, Bucky?”

“Pfffft… no. Why would I?”

“I dunno.” Steve’s smile was furtive. “Just looks like you do, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re just seein’ things,” Bucky shot back.

“Bucky likes Bonnie,” Steve teased under his breath. “OW!” he yelped when Bucky reached across their game and socked him in the shoulder.

“Don’t! That’s not even funny, Stevie!”

They went back to their game, but Bucky’s ears were pink, and he was steadily losing interest in it. He felt relieved when the teacher rang the recess bell to gather the children and call them into their classroom lines. Bucky gathered up the jacks into the small, burlap sack and tucked the ball into his pocket. It was Steve’s turn to bring the game tomorrow; he’d already mentioned that he wanted to play with toy soldiers. His ma spared him a few cents to buy some new ones, including a miniature tank. Bucky was looking forward to it, as long as Steve didn’t try to get his goat again and give him a hard time.

“Sorry,” Steve muttered contritely. “Didn’t know you were gonna be so sore about it.”

“Just don’t do that again, ya punk.”

Steve felt chafed from Bucky’s rebuff for the rest of the afternoon. He kept stealing looks at him from across the aisle while they were supposed to be working on arithmetic. Steve hated it when Bucky was mad at him. Bucky’s shoulders were hunched over his desk. The tails of his shirt were untucked in the back, askew from spending the past half hour curled over their jacks. Bucky’s cap left his dark, curly hair slightly rumpled, but their teacher wouldn’t let them keep their hats on in class.

Steve didn’t mind. He still liked watching Bucky. Not for too long at a time, or someone would see. Bucky would see, and then, _Steve_ would be the one having to explain why he was staring. And Steve Rogers didn’t need one more reason to have to defend himself.

Bucky Barnes was that first burst of sunshine through the clouds after a hard rain. Bucky Barnes was a melting popsicle on the front porch when it was hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement, which was summer in Brooklyn in a nutshell. Bucky Barnes was gap-toothed smiles and comic books read out on the fire escape and shoulders bumped together on the Ferris wheel at Coney Island when they could afford it. Bucky Barnes was Steve Rogers’ entire _world_.

By the time the last bell rang, and they walked together with their school books hooked under their arms, their earlier tiff was forgotten, easing the knot that had gathered in Steve’s gut and driving away the nervous prickles.

They saw Bonnie and her friends again, stopping at the newsstand to buy some chewing gum. Bucky pretended he wasn’t paying attention to them, but his steps slowed a little as they walked past.

The girls snickered as they caught sight of Steve. His cheeks burned as he watched them point at him, eyeing his clean, but still second-hand clothing and shoes that were worn through in the toes. He watched Claire, one of Bonnie’s friends, point to him and make motions with her hands, indicating his small stature. His cheeks burned with embarrassment, and the nervous prickles came back. Steve hurried by, leaving Bucky to ask him, “What’s the rush, Stevie? Wait for me!”

“I wanna get home,” Steve muttered.

“Why’re you walkin’ so fast?”

“M’not.” But his shorter legs were moving quickly, and Bucky had to stretch his stride a little to keep up.

“Slow down!” And Bucky’s attention returned to his best friend, no longer shifted to the object of his interest.

They made it to Steve’s apartment building, and Steve stomped up the steps, still frustrated and not quite in the mood to share why he’d booked it home. Bucky’s footsteps sounded heavy behind him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’s wrong.”

Steve bent down and grabbed the key from under the floor mat and unlocked his door. The apartment still smelled like bleach; Sarah had cleaned it from top to bottom the night before, making Steve mop the floors, since dusting sent the dirty particles into his lungs and aggravated his asthma. 

“Sure looks like somethin’s wrong.”

“The girls were givin’ me dirty looks,” Steve muttered as he set his books on the table and went to the ice box. 

“Awww, just ignore ‘em, Stevie.”

Steve made a face and shrugged. He took out the bottle of milk, shaking it to mix in the cream that settled to the top before he poured each of them a shallow glass. Steve ducked back into the fridge and found the loaf of bread and jar of strawberry preserves and spread two slices of it thickly, handing one over. Bucky grinned as he took it, enjoying the simple treat. Sarah would be home in an hour, and Steve and Bucky promised to be home before she arrived as part of Steve’s ongoing promise that he could be responsible for himself without Sarah having to drop him with a sitter. When Steve turned nine, she gave him his own housekey and said he couldn’t lose it. Bucky was a year older, and Sarah trusted him to keep Steve company, figuring there was safety in numbers. Steve’s old sitter, Mrs. Sampson on the first floor, was pleasant enough, but her apartment always smelled like fish and Musterole.

“Just get sick of ‘em callin’ me a shrimp, is all.”

“One of these days, Stevie, you’re gonna grow up big and strong and show ‘em,” Bucky assured him. “Just like your old man.” Joseph Rogers was tall and broad-shouldered with a barrel chest, and Steve had his blue eyes but not his hearty constitution.

“I’m gonna go into the Army just like him, too,” Steve boasted. Bucky beamed.

“Sure ya are, pal.” And just like that, warmth and reassurance crept into Steve’s chest, brightening all the dark spaces. Only Bucky could do that.

They worked on their multiplication tables and dawdled over it, taking breaks to listen to the small, staticky radio to listen to the baseball game. When Sarah came home, Steve and Bucky had already washed their glasses and cleaned up the crumbs.

“Hello, Bucky. How was your day, boys?” Sarah hung up her wool coat and took off her white nursing cap, hanging it on the peg. 

“Fine, Mrs. Rogers.”

“Look at the two of you. Steve, your knees are filthy. Were you playing in the dirt?”

“Just a little. Just with jacks.”

Sarah tsked over her son’s state. “Go ahead and wash up for supper, Steve. Bucky, it’s time for you to get back to your mother. Don’t let her miss you too much.”

“She won’t,” Bucky assured her, which made her chuckle and shake her head.

“You boys can play tomorrow. Thank you for keeping Steve company.

“Sure, Mrs. Rogers. See ya, Stevie.” But Bucky paused by the door, smiling back at Sarah.

“Hey, Mrs. Rogers, you sure do smell nice today.”

Sarah gave him a small, pleased smile. “Perhaps it’s the new soap at the sinks at the hospital, Bucky.”

“Well, you sure smell nice,” he emphasized. “Bye, ma’am.”

Once the door clicked shut after him, Sarah told Steve, “Your friend is quite the lady killer. He knows how to pour on the charm.”

“He does?” Steve made a face as he washed his hands at the sink, using his mother’s jar of soap bar stubs soaking in water, because Sarah was thrifty, and it served the additional purpose of dish soap. 

“Mm-hmm. He knows how to give a compliment. And he smiles with his eyes. That’s a good thing to be able to do, Steve. You’ll need to know that, one day.”

Steve rolled his eyes, hunching his shoulders. Sarah noticed his ears turning pink.

“Do any girls ever catch your eye?”

“Naw, Ma. But _Bucky_ likes Bonnie, even if he keeps sayin’ he doesn’t.”

Of course. Sometimes, even just one year made a difference. Steve, at nine, still needed to catch up to Bucky in that regard, but Sarah wouldn’t suggest that to her son. There was still plenty of time for him to fall down that particular rabbit hole. And she wanted to enjoy her little boy while he was still a little boy.

“We have some leftover chicken soup. Go ahead and set the table, and I’ll heat it up.”

 

*

The months rolled by, and Bucky went from staring at girls to actually _talking to ‘em._

Every now and again, he broke free from Steve, Arnie and the rest of the boys while they were playing stickball in the street when Bonnie came walking by from the newsstand. 

He handed the makeshift bat to Steve furtively and tucked his shirt in properly. “Take my turn, Stevie!”

“Hey! Where ya goin’?” Steve whined.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Except that he wouldn’t.

Sometimes the exchanges were teasing. Bucky developed a habit of shadowing her on the playground, imitating her until she told him to stop. Tugging out the neat bow of her hair ribbons. Just making a nuisance of himself.

But then, he started walking her home.

Well, following her home, still teasing her, but… it wasn’t hostile. And unlike their previous encounters, she wasn’t scowling. Eventually, it seemed like all Bucky did was _wait_ for her, haunting her favorite places around the school and the rest of the neighborhood. One afternoon, Steve caught Bucky just outside the stoop of her apartment. Hers was down on the ground floor, and the living room window was open. Bucky was listening intently to her piano practice. Steve pulled a face at the shaky, unevenly spaced notes and chords.

“She’s not very good,” Steve muttered as he hunkered down next to him.

“Sssshhh,” Bucky hissed, elbowing him slightly. But then he got a gleam in his eye that meant he was about to do something he shouldn’t, and if Steve stuck around long enough, a) they’d get into trouble, and b) it might be worth it for the story to repeat later on. 

But in this case, it was neither. Bucky went into the narrow alleyway between Bonnie’s apartment and the tenement next door. He found a few pebbles and cupped them in his hand. He stood out far enough on the sidewalk and began tossing the pebbles at her window.

“Buck! BUCKY! Quit it!” Steve’s pulse quickened with alarm and he felt a jolt of worry in his gut. Bucky motioned for him to hush as he threw another pebble. It hit the glass with a small thwap, and the piano notes abruptly stopped. “We’re gonna get in trouble!”

“Just a second.” Bucky waited, and he was rewarded with the sound of footsteps coming from what sounded like the other side of the room. Bucky tossed another pebble, and his eyes were wide anticipation. Steve braced to get yelled at, but it was only Bonnie who came to the window, glancing around the block. Her eyes landed on Bucky and Steve. Steve was _horrified_.

...yet Bucky stood there, dropped the rest of the pebbles, stuck his thumbs in his ears and waggled the rest of his fingers while sticking out his tongue.

If he’d wanted her attention, it worked. Somewhat.

Bonnie unlocked the window and slid it open with some difficulty. Her pretty face twisted into a scowl. “I’m gonna tell my pop on you, Bucky Barnes! Quit bothering me!”

“Bonny has to take prissy piano lessons!” Bucky teased.

“Bucky!” Steve scolded under his breath. He jerked on his arm. Bonnie’s dad was _big_. Steve didn’t want to stick around long enough to let him make good on her threat. He pulled on it again until Bucky practically stumbled along after him.

“Get lost!” Bonnie called after them before slamming the window shut.

Bucky snickered the whole way as they ran down the block.

“Why did you do that?”

“I dunno.” But Bucky looked satisfied, anyway, with the end result: He’d gotten Bonnie’s attention.

They headed to the pharmacy, and Steve bought his usual ration of cinnamon red hots. Bucky bought a small paper bag of licorice wheels and some Bit O’ Honey, which made Steve pull a face; he didn’t know how Bucky could stand those. They lingered in the store by the stacks of comic books, thumbing through the pages and laughing at the sound effects printed in big, bright, blocky letters. 

They tracked down Arnie at the park and played with his army men until a little before dark. “We’ve gotta get back, or Stevie’s gonna get it,” Bucky told him.

“Awwww!” Steve helped Arnie load his little soldiers back into the small bag. “My guys were winning!”

“Were not!” 

“Were, too!”

They continued to argue about it as they crossed the busy street. The first of the street lamps came on, and Arnie left them just outside of the newsstand.

“I’ve got a model plane,” Arnie told them. “Come over tomorrow, and I’ll let you see it.”

“Okay. C’mon, Stevie.”

“See ya, pal.”

“Bye, Rogers.”

Steve thought they were going to take the usual way home, but instead, they walked down the block, toward Bonnie’s again.

“Buck,” Steve whined.

“Shut up a minute. Go home if you want.”

Steve stood back, leaning against the tenement building, arms folded. Bucky threw another pebble at the window, but this time, he laid one of the Bit O’Honey’s on the outer ledge. Steve huffed in confusion. They heard Bonnie’s steps coming back again, and this time, Bucky was the one who jerked Steve along.

“C’mon, Stevie!”

“Chee, maneez,” Steve muttered. They scuttled off, and behind them, as Steve hurried away with knots of confusion in his gut, they heard the window slide open again.

*

**Seven years later:**

“You’ve gotta be smooth with the ladies, Stevie. You’ve just gotta know how to talk to ‘em.”

“Easy for you to say, jerk,” Steve muttered from over his book. Bucky was still glowing from his trip to Coney Island with Dot. Bucky met her the week before when they had their fortunes read, just as she walked away from buying some cotton candy. “At least they _talk_ to you.”

Bucky eyed him askance. “What? They talk to you, Stevie!”

“Sure they do. ‘Pardon me, little boy, can you step aside?’” Bucky snickered at the high-pitched, feminine tone he adopted when he said that.

“Okay, Stevie. I’m just sayin,’ you’ll find a nice dame one of these days that’ll be crazy about you and see all of the good stuff that I see.”

Steve rolled his eyes and blew his hair out of his eyes with an exasperated breath.

Bucky grinned at him. “Hey.”

“What?”

“C’mere a sec. Look, we’ll practice.”

“What?! Bucky! Are you kiddin’ me?!”

“Would I kid you?”

“Yeah, you would! You do all the time!”

“Well, not this time, punk. Just c’mere.” Bucky waved Steve over to him, and Steve got up reluctantly, flipping his book shut with a sigh. He joined Bucky, who motioned for him to stop in place. Bucky tried – and failed – to remain serious. Steve saw the amusement dancing in those big, baby blues.

“You don’t hafta lay it on too thick, Stevie. You just need an opener. The ladies like that. Okay. Here goes. You’re the dame, by the way-“

“WHAT?!”

“Calm down, Stevie. Be the dame for just a second-“

“No way. I ain’t bein’ the dame.”

“Steve. C’mon. Just for a minute.”

Steve felt his cheeks flaming darkly and annoyance crawling over his scalp, making it tight. 

“Fine,” he muttered.

“Pardon me, miss? Miss? I couldn’t help but notice that you look lovely in that hat. May I just tell you, if it’s not too forward, that you have magnificent taste?”

Steve’s annoyance dissolved, and he released a snicker. “Seriously, Buck?”

“Serious as a heart attack, Rogers. Trust me. It’s nice to give a lady a compliment she wasn’t expecting.” Bucky gave Steve’s shoulder a light punch. “Okay. Try it on me.”

“Buck… no. I can’t do that!” Steve’s lips twisted in annoyance, and he was about to go back to his book. They came back to Bucky’s apartment after he finished selling papers at the newsstand. Steve had a job working on Saturdays sweeping up at the grocer’s, and sometimes he helped deliver flowers for the florist shop down the corner. It didn’t earn him much, but every little bit helped; Sarah was feeling under the weather and she wasn’t working as many hours. Steve had the feeling that finishing high school wasn’t gonna be much more than a pipe dream.

Bucky had his determined face on, and Steve knew he wasn’t going to rest until Steve made some effort.

“Sure ya can, pal.”

Steve sighed. Then, he muttered “If it’s not too forward, ma’am, I was just noticing that you have on a very nice hat.”

Bucky clapped his hand over his mouth and snickered. “Rogers, that was awful. It sounds like you wanna ask her where to buy one _yourself_.”

“BUCKY!”

“Sorry, sorry… it does, though.” Bucky laughed again. “And right now, I’m picturing you in a ladies’ hat... “ Bucky reached out and chucked him under the chin. “You look so pretty, Stevie!”

“Jerk.” Steve swatted Bucky’s hands away and stalked back to his seat. “Why do I even put up with you, Barnes?”

“What? C’mon, Stevie, I’m just giving you a few pointers.”

“You’re gonna get me slapped in the face, if I take _your_ advice. If I tell some dame she has a nice hat, she’ll clean my clock. Or tell me to take a walk off a dock.”

“Just try it with a little finesse. And it doesn’t have to be a compliment. If you see a cute chickadee at the grocery store, you can reach up and get her something off a high shelf.”

Steve gave him a dubious look.

“Or you can carry her bags, instead,” Bucky amended.

“Maybe she’ll give me a tip,” Steve joked.

That made Bucky snicker again and shrug. “Hey. I’d better get ready. Dot and I are going for a walk in the park.”

Jealousy flared in Steve’s chest, but he shrugged back and gave Bucky an easy smile. “Better than walking home because you couldn’t afford the train.”

“Punk…” Bucky had the decency to blush. “That happened _one_ time.”

“Does she at least like the bear?”

“She _loves_ it, I’ll have you know.”

Bucky went into his room and picked out a clean shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled. Steve lingered just outside his bathroom door, watching Bucky take a quick sink bath. He topped Steve by about six inches and his frame was covered with lean muscle. Bucky exuded masculine grace and stood with proud posture. The girls in the neighborhood stopped calling him a pain in the neck and started turning their heads when he walked by, taking in those big baby blues and that wicked cleft in his chin.

And it hurt… oh, how it hurt, for Steve, who couldn’t take his eyes off of him, either. 

While Bucky slapped a little cologne on his cheeks and combed Brylcreem into his hair, he prattled on, lecturing Steve with advice on courtship.

“You’ve got to walk on the outside of the sidewalk when you’re taking her anywhere; protect her from the traffic. And make sure to pull out her chair if you take her anywhere to eat.” Bucky was making faces at himself in the mirror as he examined a small, red pimple on the edge of his chin.

“I know that, Buck!”

“Okay, Rogers! I’m just remindin’ ya!”

Steve leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “So, are ya serious about her?”

“I dunno. I just like her, I guess.” Bucky continued to comb and flatten his hair, smoothing down a stubborn cowlick. “She’s loads of laughs, Stevie.”

“She is, huh?”

“Guess I just wanna impress her.”

“Think ya already have.” 

Bucky looked up from his preparations and stared at his best friend, brows drawn together. “Whatsamatter, Stevie?”

“Nothin’. Guess I’d better get lost, so you can go on your date.”

“You sure? I’m not through giving you lessons on getting in with the dames, Rogers!”

"Please, no more lessons, Buck, for the love of Mike!”

[](https://imgur.com/ql0zZp9)

“Awwwww!”

“I mean it. Doesn’t matter, anyway. They don’t even see me when-”

Steve bit back his words when Bucky frowned. “What was that?”

“Nothin’.”

“It was _something_ , Stevie!”

“No, it wasn’t. Go ahead and finish getting ready.”

[](https://imgur.com/qRMxQng)

Bucky looked taken aback, cocking his head slightly before he grunted under his breath. “Okay, Stevie. Be that way.” Bucky gave his hair one last nudge with the comb and went to finish dressing. He buttoned the crisp, white Bermuda shirt and tucked it in. “Is it okay in the back?”

“No. C’mere.” Steve waved him over, and Bucky turned his back to him, waiting for Steve to straighten his tucks and smooth the back. “That’s better.”

“Long as it doesn’t keep riding up and coming out when I put my arm around her,” Bucky told Steve with anticipation in his tone. His smile was confident. “How do I look?”

“Like a million bucks, Buck.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose as he laughed. “Hope you ain’t lyin’ to me, Rogers.”

“Have fun.”

“C’mon, let me walk you home.”

“You have to be there in twenty minutes!”

“I’ll make it.”

 

They took the long way to Steve’s, despite Steve’s warning, and Bucky reached into his pocket, fishing out a crumpled dollar. He dragged Steve to the newsstand and picked up a small tin of mints for himself and a box of Steve’s favorite red hots. 

“How’s your ma?”

Steve’s expression faltered as he opened the small box. “She’s been better.”

Bucky’s brows drew together, forming that little divot of concern that Steve didn’t like, usually making its appearance whenever Steve got into a scrap, or when he stopped by, at Sarah’s discretion, to visit him when he got sick. Rather than exclaim with sympathy, Bucky just reached for him, throwing an arm around those bony shoulders and giving him a brief squeeze. Even if it meant ruining the tuck of his shirt. The contact was brief, too brief for Steve to even lean into it, but it still left him with a warm glow.

“Y’know, you smile like her, sometimes,” Bucky mused. 

*

Bucky didn’t tell him that it was like watching the sunlight break loose through the clouds after a storm.


	2. I Might Step All Over Your Toes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s Bucky’s favorite audience for his corny jokes and his stories of dates that went wrong (or right). 
> 
> Bucky Barnes will _never_ quit trying to impress Steve Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline jumps forward in chunks, not quite typical of my usual plodding through the months/years at a turtle’s pace. I hope that appeals to some of you. This is the second chunk of my auction prize story for haspel-and-berry, a generous bidder and kind person all around.

“C’mon, Stevie, let’s try it again. Just remember, I’m leadin’.”

“Jesus, Bucky…”

“You’ve almost got it.” Bucky gave him a patient smile, but Steve met it with a look of exasperation. “You can do this.”

“My feet don’t agree with you at the moment, pal.”

“Tell ‘em to shut up and follow me, then. They’re _your_ feet. You’re the boss. And stand up straight. Don’t slouch.”

“I’m not slouching. That’s just what my back does.” Ever since Steve hit puberty, his spine slowly developed a kyphotic curve. It wasn’t prominent yet, but without correction, he’d be hunched over before he hit his middle years. 

“Well, you look slouchy.”

“Thanks, jerk.”

“Sorry. I’m not pickin’ on you, buddy, but we’ve gotta work on this.”

Steve’s only consolation was that he’d spent the past half hour pressed close to Bucky, hand draped over his firm shoulder while Bucky held his other one comfortably in his warm grip. Bucky smelled like his tooth powder and hair pomade leftover from his night out. It wasn’t quite eleven yet, and their neighbor, Saul, banged on the wall a little while earlier to make them turn off the radio, so they had no music other than Bucky humming under his breath. Steve didn’t mind that, either; Bucky’s voice at twenty-five had a deep richness, and he pronounced his words with the flat Brooklyn vowels. Tonight, it sounded a little scratchy. Bucky spent a little of his weekly pay at the bar down the road, and in his own words, wet his whistle and danced himself silly. He’d come home glowing and relaxed, staggering inside their apartment and glad to find Steve still up.

While the dates themselves had merit based on how pretty his date was, how long they danced, and whether she’d let him steal a kiss without slapping him, Bucky would never admit to Steve that the most fun part of his night was coming home to him to tell Steve about it in glowing, and sometimes ridiculous detail.

It made his nights to watch his expressions, sometimes annoyed, mostly amused, and always honest. More often than not, though, he loved to make Steve shake that sandy blond head and smile that little, deprecating, fond smile.

The apartment they shared now wasn’t as nice as the one Steve grew up in, but it was _theirs_. His and Bucky’s. 

Coming home to Bucky’s stories and horrible singing and the faint scent of his cigarettes that permeated his clothes was a privilege he’d craved for so long. Living with Bucky meant not having to listen to the cold, empty hush of his lonely room. Sarah’s picture hung over his battered, second-hand dresser in a tarnished silver frame, voiceless and devoid of her soft touch and warmth. Steve missed her laugh and her chicken soup, the stories she told him about his father when they first met, watching her do mundane things like whitewashing her nursing shoes or starching her cap. Steve wondered if she was sitting beside God, making him laugh with the story of the time Steve accidentally set Mrs. Johnson’s best Sunday hat on fire while he was performing altar boy duty during the early service. His shoulder still remembered her reassuring grip and the tiny shake she’d give him when Steve was down on himself, whether it was for a team that didn’t pick him or a girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. Steve’s mother was his world.

So now, he came home to Bucky, or more accurately, Bucky came home to _him_. And right now, he was on a roll, and in rare form.

“You keep looking down at your feet. Don’t do that.”

“I have to keep track of what they’re doing, smart guy.”

“You can _feel_ what they’re doing, and you’re the one telling ‘em what to do! Eyes up, buddy boy! Look at me.”

“Well, now I’ve got a great view up your nostrils…”

Bucky’s face crinkled, and he snickered and shook his head. “Quit it, ya dope. Look me in the eye, then.” Bucky wiggled his eyebrows for good measure, and oh, Steve was a goner for that look, and the twinkle in those luminous eyes. They changed based on his moods; tonight, they were a bright, clear blue, and he radiated happiness. Steve felt his lips twisting up into a smile against his will in response. “If your lady watches your face, and if you’re the one leading, then she can tell which way you’re planning to go.” 

Bucky went back to humming out the tune and counting out the steps, and Steve tried to follow him, feeling a faint tip of Bucky’s hand, signaling for Steve to step back. “That ain’t half-bad, Stevie… OW!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

“Remember when I said to pay attention to when I’m leading?!”

“If that was you leading Bucky, then I’m in trouble.”

Bucky had the nerve to giggle, and he finally let go of Steve, giving him a little shove.

“Drink some water, Buck, your breath stinks.”

“Oh, that’s charming. Never tell your date that.”

“Well, despite appearances, Bucky, you ain’t my dance date.”

“Well, fine, Stevie, _be that way_.” But there was no malice in his tone, and Steve caught his smile as he left the living room (really no different from the kitchen, since the apartment was cramped and typical of the ones in the rest of the building) and headed to the sink. He grabbed himself a glass and ran the water for a minute to let it get cold before he filled it. Steve heard his thirsty gulps, and Bucky’s lips were rosy as he wiped them on the back of his hand.

“Ready for another spin on the dance floor?”

“Nah. M’ready for bed, Buck.”

“Spoilsport.”

But Bucky was already yawning, and he handed Steve the rest of the glass of water. Steve gratefully downed the rest and returned the glass to the sink. They changed for bed, stripping down to their drawers and undershirts and burrowing down under the covers of their respective beds once Steve pulled the chain on the overhead lightbulb.

They chatted in the dark, voices low and hoarse.

“She was a real chatterbox, Stevie, but she was a nice girl. She said she had a friend.”

“Mmmmm.”

“She said that maybe she could introduce the two of you.”

“I haven’t even met her yet, Buck. How do you know I’d like her friend?” He didn’t ask the ever-present question: How do you know she’ll even like me?

“She likes art. Looking at it, anyway,” Bucky offered. “Show her some of your drawings.”

Steve snorted, making Bucky exclaim, “What? Don’t be like that, Stevie! She’ll love ‘em!”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” Steve’s sketchbook was filled with random nonsense, if you asked him: Landscape sketches of the park. Quick studies of the newsstand building and the laundromat. Sketches of the backs of people sitting on the midtown bus. The fortune teller’s booth at Coney Island and the ferris wheel. The flowers in his neighbor’s window planters before they started to wilt. Nothing remarkable to show a prospective date, in Steve’s opinion. It would be like handing her the evidence of his dull life, drawn in careful strokes.

“Maybe you should quit doubting yourself, pal. You’ve got a lot to offer somebody.”

Steve huffed, and he was glad Bucky couldn’t see him shake his head in the dark. “Yeah, I’m a real man about town.”

“Maybe the right girl doesn’t want ‘the man about town.’ Maybe she just wants that nice little guy from Brooklyn who’s always holding open doors and making nice with the old ladies on the bus or drawing pictures for kids at the park. If I were a girl, I’d wanna chat up _that_ guy.”

“Sure. I’ll win her heart by scribbling her a picture of Mother Goose.”

“Speaking of which, have you talked to that newspaper?” Steve watched Bucky crane his face from the pillow. “Didn’t they need someone to draw the comics?”

“I left the guy at the copy desk a few pages. He said the editor will look at ‘em. I just need to stop by and ask to talk to him again.”

Bucky’s tone was warm, and a little proud. “Aw, Stevie, that’d be swell.”

Bucky talked a little more about his date.  
“I picked the onions out of my sandwich and threw ‘em out after she told me she wasn’t planning on kissing me if I ate ‘em.”

“You threw out perfectly good food?!”

“Just the onions, Stevie! For cryin’ out loud, I wasn’t gonna give up the chance for a _kiss_.”

“I know. But you _love_ onions.” And Steve smiled at another memory. “Remember those hot dogs at the ball park? You had yours with onions and sauerkraut?”

“And pickle relish,” Bucky added. “That was the life. Might have had a seat all the way in the back of the park, buddy, but that frank was a little piece of heaven.” Steve heard the crack of Bucky’s smile. “You an’ me, we need to go to another game, Stevie.”

“Whenever I can save a few pennies, we’ll go again.”

Steve waited a minute and listened to Bucky turning over in his bed before he asked “Was the kiss worth it?”

“Was it worth it? Rogers, was it _ever_.”

Steve rolled over to face the wall, knowing Bucky couldn’t see his wistful, envious expression, but wanting to hide it anyway. “Sweet dreams, Buck.”

“Night, Stevie.”

*

 

One week in August, while the city still suffered sweltering humidity, making Steve and Bucky’s shirts stick to their backs, George and Winifred invited Steve and Bucky to go with them to the Cape. Winifred’s sister had a summer home that was mere blocks from Wood Neck Beach. Bucky managed to get a few days off after begging his boss not to take away his spot, but Steve couldn’t go with him, after all, once the editor called him back and offered him the job drawing the funny pages. Steve was disappointed, because a trip to the shore with Bucky sounded like a blast.

Bucky packed his suitcase, and then he had Steve sit in it for him so he could fasten the buckles. Steve watched him wistfully as he folded up the clothing choices he’d decided against and returned them to the drawer.

“Hope ya have a ball, pal. But don’t tell if ya do.”

“Aw, Steve! You know I wish you could go.” Bucky smirked. “I could pack you up in my suitcase.”

“Har-de-har-har.”

Bucky gave him a little shove, and then he wrapped an arm around him. “You deserve a little fun. Lyin’ on the beach and taking a dip in the waves isn’t gonna be the same without you.” 

“Don’t get a sunburn.”

“I ain’t you. You had to end up freckled.” Bucky had a point; Steve burned like a lobster, thanks to the delicate, fair complexion he inherited from Sarah. 

Bucky loved the sprinkling of freckles over his shoulders and forearms, though. He counted them when Stevie wasn’t lookin’.

And there was nothing Buck liked better than watching Stevie.

 

“You just want me around as an audience for when you begin struttin’ around,” Steve accused.

“Just like Charles Atlas.” Bucky flexed for Steve, hamming it up and making his biceps bulge for his best friend’s benefit. “’What MUSCLES!’” he pronounced, mimicking the ridiculous ad for the exercise book they always saw in the magazines.

“Yeah, yeah. Showoff.”

Again, though. It was a sight Steve didn’t need. Not while they were in public. Not where anyone would notice him looking and feeling like he would go up in flames any second. It was _Bucky._

It was _always_ Bucky.

Then Bucky had a thought. “Hey. Whaddya want me to bring you for a souvenir?”

Steve’s smile dropped, and he waved it off. “Naw, Buck. Don’t worry about it. Don’t spend your money, okay? I don’t need anything. You’re just as broke as me!”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I’ll bring ya back something if I feel like it! Whaddya think about that, Rogers?” Bucky boasted. “Maybe if I have a good time, I want you to have a little of that good time, too. C’mon. I’ll bring you something.”

Steve felt his flesh prickle. They were poor as dirt. They barely managed to buy milk and pay rent that week, and Bucky was talking about bringing him back a present. “Just don’t, okay?” he murmured as he headed over to Bucky’s mussed bed and began to straighten the sheets. Bucky automatically helped him smooth out the other side and fluff the pillows.

“I can do that, Stevie.”

“I know that.”

Steve was flattered that Bucky thought enough of him to want to bring him a little of his own good time. If he didn’t suggest that Bucky bring something back for Dot instead if he had to spend loose change, then maybe Steve would shove down the frisson of guilt for a minute. Just this one time.

And maybe, just maybe the next day, when Bucky left, hearing George honking the horn from the street, Steve reminded himself that it didn’t mean anything out of the ordinary when Bucky threw an arm around him, ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead, just like any of the times he’d done with his kid sister.

Still. Steve waited until the door swung shut after Bucky before gingerly touching that spot on his skin.

And he pretended he wasn’t thinking about it all afternoon.

*

Bucky came back tanned, like Steve predicted, and with new strands of dark blond and auburn in his hair. “Stevie, I’m home!” he called out. From the bedroom, Steve heard the scuff of his shoes and the suitcase as it bumped up against a chair leg while Bucky searched for him. “Where are you, pal?”

“Back here, Buck,” Steve croaked, even though it made his throat burn like someone stabbed his tonsils. “You made it back before dark?” 

Bucky appeared in the doorway, but his smile faded when he saw Steve in bed, looking wan and miserable. His skin was clammy with sweat, and he had the small room fan running; they’d long given up on the miserable excuse for a swamp cooler wedged in their bedroom window. Their landlord was a skinflint, and he never bothered to winterize it the autumn before. Bucky had turned it on a month ago, and water dripped out of it, dashing their hopes of dealing with Brooklyn’s humid summer heat.

But Steve needed to cool off; that much, Bucky knew. “Whatsamatter, Stevie? You’re lookin’ peaked.”

“Strep,” he muttered. “Remember how when we were kids, I used to catch it every summer? It kinda caught up to me.”

“Aww, Stevie!” Bucky immediately began to fret. He set down his suitcase and started using his Mother Hen voice that Steve often resented, but it soothed him a little, now. “What’ve ya done for it so far?”

“Just went to the pharmacy. Had to use the egg money to get some penicillin, pal.” His voice sounded awful. “Sorry, Buck.”

“What?! Sorry? Oh, no, you don’t. No feelin’ sorry, buddy, but we’ve gotta cool you down.” Bucky went to the other window and opened it wide, even though the screen had long been torn open. He wouldn’t worry about flies, for now. Steve had only cracked it open a couple of inches before he crawled into bed in the morning, when it was still cool. He woke up drowning in his own sweat. The sheets felt sticky and damp. Bucky began his usual routine that he’d practiced over the past few years since Sarah passed.

Steve watched him leave the room, and he heard him pacing around in the kitchen, slamming open cupboards and the icebox. Steve sighed to himself. This already felt like it was gonna become a big production, but sometimes it was just best to let Bucky make his fuss, to his satisfaction, rather than arguing with him.

And arguing was just gonna hurt Steve’s throat. No sense in doing that.

Bucky returned to the room with a glass of water to drink and one that looked suspiciously cloudy. “You’re gonna gargle, buddy.”

“Awww!” Steve made a face. “Buck, I hate gargling.”

“Only way to draw it out. You’ll feel better.” Steve hated the taste of hot salt water when he already felt miserable. And gargling meant he actually had to get _up._

But Bucky wouldn’t be swayed from his goal of patching him up. He wrangled him up from the bed, which Steve actually felt grateful for, since his knees felt weak. Bucky brought him the water, and Steve dutifully gargled, low and burbling in his throat, making Bucky smirk at the sounds.

“You oughta be on Broadway, Stevie.”  
“Shuddup, Buck.”

To Bucky’s credit, the salty water did take a little of the sting out of his tonsils. Bucky made him sit on the toilet lid while he swabbed down his arms, shoulders, back and chest with a cool, damp rag.

“S’too cold,” he complained.

“Yeah? Well, you’re boiling, buddy. I could fry an egg on the top of your head. It wouldn’t feel that cold if you weren’t this hot.” That didn’t stop Steve from wincing and grumbling, though, when Bucky swabbed down the back of his neck.

He led him back to their room, but he laid him on his own bed instead of Steve’s. “I’m washing your sheets. It’s time to do laundry, anyway. I’ve gotta wash my stuff from my trip.”

“You just got back,” Steve complained.

“It’s fine, Stevie. I’m gonna get you settled first.”

“I’m already settled.”

“Yeah? Well, you still sound awful. Hey, I just remembered something.” Bucky went to his suitcase. “Becca got a little heat sickness. She stayed out in the sun too long. Ma picked up some aspirin.” Bucky fished the tin out and handed Steve two of the small white tablets. “Drink lots of water with those.”

“Yes, Ma,” Steve muttered. He and Bucky exchanged a look, but then Bucky smiled.

“I almost forgot. I brought you a little something else.” Bucky fished in his suitcase again and handed Steve a small paper bag. “Didn’t get to wrap it.”

“Aw, Buck!” Steve propped himself up on his elbow and took the bag, which felt hard. He reached in and pulled out a small white shell that looked a little like a clam that someone pried open, except for the brilliant rim of dark purple around the interior edge. The top half of the shell had googly eyeballs glued to it, and there was a little inscription on the inside that read “Welcome to Falmouth.” Steve grinned and gave it a little shake to make the eyeballs move. “Bucky, this is a riot!”

“Like that?” Bucky also pulled out some salt water taffy wrapped in pink paper. “The guy at the shell shop told me that this is better than the stuff we get at Coney Island, but I haven’t even tasted it yet.”

“Big spender. Could have just brought me a shell from the beach.”

“That’s quahog, by the way.”

“I like it.” Steve placed the knick-knack on the edge of the windowsill where he could enjoy it. “It’s swell, Buck. Thanks.”

“Any time. Go ahead and rest. I’m gonna do the wash.”

Bucky disappeared out the door with Steve’s sheets and his own vacation laundry loaded into a bag and slung over his shoulder. Before Steve drifted off for another nap, he glanced up at the shell again. A smile pulled at his lips before the room slowly went black.

 

*

 

After a while, it became a thing.

Bucky’s boss sent him out of town once in the company truck to make a delivery and unload freight, and he came back with a funny paper menu from a restaurant, which Bucky told him made the best lemon chicken he’d ever tasted. The next time Bucky went on one of his dates at the amusement park, he brought Steve back a buffalo penny that some dropped on the ground and told him to keep it for good luck.

When Bucky took his ma to a doctor’s appointment in Paramus, he brought Steve a couple of gingersnaps from the bakery down the street from the clinic. “Not as good as your ma’s, Stevie, but they ain’t bad.” They enjoyed the crumbling, spicy biscuits with cold milk, making Steve grateful that they’d even been able to afford any that week.

When George and Winifred sent Becca to a finishing school and had Bucky come so he could relieve George at the wheel, he brought Steve back a postcard from Virginia Beach.

Steve slowly began a small collection at the bottom of his trunk, where he kept odds and ends, and little treasures he couldn’t bear to part with. He found a few of his old green soldiers and the old bag of jacks, the box containing his father’s dog tags, and old letters that Bucky sent him from when his parents took him camping up in the Catskills. Steve occasionally unfolded them and re-read them, even though he’d already memorized the words written in Bucky’s scratchy, boyish handwriting.

_Sure are a lot of mosquitos out here, pal. I’m getting eaten alive. Wish you could have seen the huge snake that we found by the lake. And you should have heard Ma scream._ That part always made Steve laugh.

Steve also added a photo of Bucky and Becca at Wood Neck, both of them leaning against the lifeguard chair. Bucky was doing the same Charles Atlas pose while Becca preened in her polka dotted swimsuit.

That was Steve’s favorite one. Foolishly, he considered that look as being one that Bucky saved just for him.

Whenever Bucky brought him back a memento, Steve told him, “Uh-oh. Another present. What’d you do _now_ , Buck? Are you tryin’ t’butter me up?”

“Nope. Just take it, punk.”

“Fine, then, jerk.” But he’d always give Bucky that pleased little smile.

Bucky would do _anything_ for that smile.

*

Steve took a walk to the park one night after work, eating melting ice cream cones as they strolled. Steve sold an illustration to a small women’s homemaking magazine, and they ate a grand dinner once he got the check in the mail.

“Have a bite, Stevie.”

“You know I hate rum raisin. It’s all yours, pal.”

“Gads, yer a heathen, Stevie. Rum raisin ice cream is the _only_ ice cream.”

“I’ll stick with strawberry any day, pal.”

“Hey, Stevie. Knock, knock.

Steve groaned, but he was game. “Who’s there?”

“Henrietta.”

“Henrietta, who?” he replied, even though he knew this was gonna be a stinker.

“Henrietta worm that was in his apple.”

Steve gave Bucky a dubious look. “Are ya kiddin’ me, Bucky?”

“Knock, knock.”

Steve shook his head, but he was grinning, which had been Bucky’s goal. “Who’s there?”

“Avenue.”

“Avenue, who?”

“Avenue knocked on this door before?”

“Terrible.”

“I’ve got a million of ‘em.” Steve didn’t doubt that for a second. “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Adore.”

“Adore, who?”

“Adore is between us. Open up!”

“Hope you aren’t tellin’ your dates these jokes.”

“Are you kiddin’? They _love_ ‘em. Okay, knock knock.”

But before Steve could answer him, he saw a few people on the corner heading down the block at a fast clip. “Looks like a commotion,” Bucky said. “Wonder what’s up?”

Steve frowned. “Why’s everyone heading to the window?” They noticed the department store window, where they displayed large television sets. None of Steve and Bucky’s friends made enough money to afford one, but they were the bee’s knees.

“Let’s go,” Steve decided. They got up and rushed to the trash can, tossing the cones in the interest of time. By the time they crossed the street at the corner, the block was crowded, and people were pushing close to the window and pointing through the glass.

“What’s happening?” Bucky asked a man in a pork pie hat and green Bermuda shirt.

“We’re trying to see, but go over there, you can hear the news on the radio,” he told Bucky tersely. “Pearl Harbor was just attacked. We’re at war.”


	3. When All This is Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, Stevie.”
> 
> “Yeah, Buck?”
> 
> “Knock, knock.”
> 
> Steve swiveled his head around to give his best friend a dubious look. Bucky smirked back at him from behind his rifle scope. “You’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t ya?”
> 
> “You know ya want to, Rogers. C’mon.”
> 
> Steve sighed with a mixture of amusement and preemptive regret. “Who’s there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter touches on war, but it won’t detract from the unbridled, tooth-rotting FLUFF in the previous chapter, or in the final one coming up. And there is more flirting to come.

“Hey. Hey, Stevie. C’mere.” Steve looked up from the map spread out on the table in the briefing room, turning at the sound of Bucky’s familiar baritone.

“Why?” Steve’s lip curled with interest and amusement.

“Just c’mon, Rogers.” Bucky was bundled up in his blue jacket – Steve _loved_ seeing him in it, but he’d never tell him that, not in those words – and a red scarf that his ma knitted him and mailed along in her care package. “You’re gonna love this.”

Bucky bade him to follow him out of the room and into one of the back corridors of the complex. Steve noticed they were headed toward Stark’s weapons lab. "What's down here?"

"You'll see." Steve heard the sounds of male laughter, including Dugan's distinctive chuckle. He turned to greet them, grinning at Bucky, "Hey, Sarge! Hey, you brought Rogers! C'mon, Rogers, time to wet your whistle!"

Howard gave them the same smile that he flashed the audience on the night that he promised the world that he'd make a car that could fly, as he held up a bottle of what looked like expensive local wine. "That last base that we raided was holding this little beauty captive. We freed her and a few more of her friends."

Steve returned his smile but shook his head. “Thanks for spreading the word, Stark, but I’m fine.”

Howard huffed, and he gestured to the wine again. “What? Are you kidding? You’d refuse perfectly good wine?”

“All the more for us,” Dugan assured him.

“Don’t want the good captain to trip while he’s dancing in those fancy tights,” Morita teased, but there was no malice in his voice. “You’re sure you don’t want in?”

“Positive,” Steve told him. “Hey, I’ve got to speak to the Colonel for a minute.”

Bucky watched him, giving Steve a dubious look. “You do, huh?”

“Don’t let them drink too much of that,” Steve told him.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Morita called after him.

“What, is Cap a lightweight?” Dugan asked.

“No. Fact is, he could drink all of us under the table. Maybe even _me_. Thanks to that fancy serum, the good Captain metabolizes alcohol three times faster than your average joe.”

Bucky rubbed his nape thoughtfully. Dugan poured him a drink, serving it in a crude glass tumbler, an insult to its vintage. Bucky raised it in a brief toast and abused it even further by tossing it back in one gulp. 

It burned through his chest on the way down, sharp and sweet. Yet, in a few moments… 

… _nothing_.

Dugan and Morita’s laughter rang through the room as they enjoyed the wine. Howard and Gabe discussed an adjustment Howard was planning to make to one of the tanks that they commandeered from the last Hydra base they wiped out.

“I’m still trying to figure out their power source. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before.”

“We need to catch up to them if we wanna beat them.”

“I know that. I put my blueprints for a flying car on the trash heap. This is my new baby.”

Bucky remained a while, needing the jovial company and some reprieve from his brooding thoughts. From the memories that woke him up screaming. He accepted Howard’s offer of another drink, futilely. 

*

Bucky eventually made his way back to his tent, and he opened the small, aluminum box with the small key that he kept strung on his dog tags, close to his heart. The items inside winked up at him in the dim light of his lantern, and he smiled at the memories they evoked, reliving the story each thing told.

He reopened the letters from Steve that he’d written to him when he was first deployed. Steve’s handwriting was small and neat, and Bucky read the letters back to himself in Steve’s voice, musing. Wondering how Steve had managed those few weeks without him. 

_Old man Johnson raised the price of his bread by twenty cents, Buck. You know that’s robbery, plain and simple. Everyone I know is strapped, these days. How are they feeding you? Good, I hope? I saw Dot the other day. She asked me if I’d heard from you. She looks good._

That made Bucky feel wistful. The mention of Dot brought with it the tactile memories of how her lipstick smelled and tasted and softness of her auburn curls when he stroked them back from her face. The flavor of cotton candy crystallizing on his tongue. The emptiness of his pockets after they came home from the amusement park and walked home from the train stop. Dot had moved on, and Bucky knew it was just as well. A part of him wanted to miss her.

His heart belonged to someone else.

Along with the letters, Steve sent drawings. There were also newspaper clippings of the comic strips that he sold. Bucky passed those around once in a while, making Dugan hoot loudly, “Didn’t know Cap was an _art-eest_.” And every once in a while, when they were settled in after setting up camp, Steve would draw the fellas a little something to amuse them. They loved his sketches of pin-up girls in their dancing costumes the most, hanging them on foot lockers and keeping them tucked under their pillows. It comforted Bucky that despite the way the Army had repurposed Steve and remade him into something harder and indestructible, they hadn’t take away this. They hadn’t taken away his ability to create beauty, and a soft memory.

There were a few pieces of the salt water taffy Bucky had brought home from the Cape. Bucky hoarded those. Sweets were precious and strictly rationed. There were days where Bucky would have given _anything_ for a chocolate bar.

There was a picture of Becca, Winifred and George, slightly creased, that Bucky kept tucked inside one of Steve’s letter envelopes to keep it safe. The reminder of home gave him a sharp pang, creating an emptiness in his chest. He wondered if they would know him, now. If Becca would recognize him despite the new hardness in his eyes, and if she would smell the stench of death that permeated his clothing, or see the lives of the soldiers he’d taken in the way he moved, or hear it in the tenor of his laugh. _Would they still love him?_ Would they still know him? Was he still the brother and the son hanging from the lifeguard chair on the beach?

Bucky didn’t see that young man anymore when he buttoned his uniform and tucked in his shirt. 

It puzzled him, though, that he could look at Steve, and still see his scabby knees and the freckles on his back and his knobby collarbones and elbows. He could still see long, deft fingers scooping up metal jacks or blending his pencil scratches to give the shapes on the cheap drawing paper life. Bucky could stare at what the Army made him and still see that soft smile, still see him as breakable. He was still Sarah Rogers’ son. He still smelled the same and occasionally knocked into Bucky to get his attention, giving his shoulder a fond squeeze. He still had no clue of how to talk to dames; every time Peggy walked by, he colored up red as a damned _beet_.

Bucky knew she noticed Steve. He pretended it didn’t chafe him.

Bucky reported to the armory and began to clean his rifles, setting aside the scope for Howard to look at when he had the chance; it was cracked. The routine comforted him. The weight of the metal in his hands, the heft of the handle and stock… it never let him down. His hands knew the task intimately and by rote. 

He set down the rifle just as his ears picked up Steve’s familiar footsteps in the corridor, followed by his low, “Hey, Buck.”

“Whaddya know good, Rogers?”

“Found a Hydra camp on the edge of town, and a warehouse full of their artillery.”

“Phillips already gave the order?”

“Yeah.”

“Guess I won’t have time to organize my scrapbook, then,” Bucky joked. 

“Sorry to ruin all your plans, pal.”

“It’s all right, Stevie. I don’t mind makin’ new plans with you.”

Steve ducked his head bashfully, and when he looked back up at Bucky, there was that smile, and that little twinkle in his eye.

“Who knows, Stevie? I might even bring ya back a souvenir.”

*

 

Bucky was as good as his word.

Steve, like Bucky, saved his letters, as well as the postcards he’d sent him from Italy. From Brussels and England. From his basic training camp. He’d placed them in the same box as the ones Bucky sent him from camp, now even more precious now that there was a chance that Bucky might not come home. Hidden among Steve’s letters were his 4F notices, and the still-pristine 1A, stamped in ink red as blood. It still held the fold marks, slightly mashed around the corners from being crammed into his jacket pocket. He’d hastily hidden it where Bucky couldn’t find it, mere moments before he heard Bucky’s key turn in the lock. 

Bucky was tired but glowing from the good time he’d had, a sight Steve would never tire of; he didn’t realize that was the last time he’d see Bucky look like that. Carefree. Confident.

Undamaged.

Bucky locked up behind himself and chided Steve with a shake of his head. “You missed out, pal. The joint was jumpin’. Bonnie asked me why you cut out so soon.”

“She was there for you,” Steve pointed out, voice bland. “She looked good, though.”

“The whole point of asking her to bring a friend was so you could actually _talk_ to her.”

“Yeah. About that. Didn’t quite work out, Buck.” Which, roughly translated, meant _She thinks I’m lower than the dirt under her toenails._ Steve gave him a shrug and went back to getting ready for bed. He listened to Bucky moving around in their apartment. Heard him hang his Army cap on the coatrack, along with his brown jacket. Heard him sigh with relief as he removed the polished, hard leather shoes and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs. Heard the low whip of the necktie sliding off from around his throat and the scratch of his fingernails through his hair, ruffling it loose from its careful styling and the press of the hatband. 

In his dress pants and undershirt, he became “just Bucky” again, and Steve felt a rush of protectiveness. Bucky lingered in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against it while Steve took his turn at the sink. Steve filled his cup at the tap and took all of his medicines. Bucky’s eyes were slightly bloodshot and drooping a little, but they crinkled a little around the corners.

“They turned ya down again, huh?”

Steve’s eyes flitted away from Bucky’s reflection over his shoulder in the mirror. “Guess the fifth time wasn’t exactly the charm.”

“Where were you from this time? Hackensack? Poughkeepsie? Harlem?”

“Geez, Buck… quit it. You just love yankin’ my chain, dontcha?”

Bucky joined him by the sink and ruffled his hair. “Sure do. Bet you’ll miss it when I get outta yer hair, Rogers.”

And like that, the facade of calm acceptance between them crumbled. Steve’s breath caught, and his head jerked around to fully face him, and he saw the tightness around Bucky’s mouth, the way his shoulders sagged. “You big, dumb mook,” Steve muttered.

“C’mere,” Bucky rasped, and his arms reached out to snare Steve and pull him close. Steve smelled the fading remnant of his cheap cologne mingling with his sweat and cigarette smoke - it was a dirty, expensive habit they couldn’t afford, but every now and again, Bucky needed a smoke - and he felt Bucky’s hammering pulse in his neck, pressed against Steve’s temple. “You know I don’t want this for you, Rogers. I can’t...I can’t, I just-”

“Shut up, Buck.”

Steve’s arms tightened around him. This wasn’t the brief hug at the fair, or any one of the companionable grapples they’d shared over the years. This was Bucky, holding him, offering him the wordless promise of his return, telling Steve all the things he couldn’t dare say out loud. Steve heard Bucky’s sigh that gave way to low sob, and Steve’s hand rubbed his back through the thin undershirt. He felt so solid and precious and real. Familiar and comforting.

“Write to me.”

“I will, damn it.”

“Take care of yourself, Rogers.”

“I’ll get by.”

“I know you can.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut against the prickling burn. Steve almost didn’t want Bucky’s faith in him, in the face of the lie and his pending departure. Never at any time of his life did Steve ever want to tell Bucky _I can manage without you._ Just the thought was a sacrilege.

He felt Bucky’s fingers awkwardly stroke his hair, cupping the crown of his head. Steve kept rubbing his back. “I won’t… I won’t drag you down, Bucky. You won’t have to worry about me, okay?”

“You never dragged me down, Rogers. Don’t give me that shit.” Bucky’s head tilted a little, and Steve felt his cheek pressed against his brow. 

“All I ever did was get you into trouble.”

“There’s never been anyone else I wanna get in trouble with more than you, Steve. When all this is over, we’re just gonna hafta find more trouble to get into.”

“You’re takin’ all the stupid with you, Buck.”

“Like hell I am, Stevie.”

Steve smelled like Ivory soap and the eucalyptus balm he used on his chest at night. His skin was cool and smooth and he felt so slight in his arms. Bucky didn’t want to let go of him yet. 

“Tell me I’ll come back to you.”

“You’ll come back to me, or so help me, Bucky Barnes, I’m coming after you.”

It wasn’t a hollow threat after all. The night Steve pulled him off that slab and dragged him out of the middle of all that smoke and flames, Bucky realized he hadn’t taken all of the stupid with him, after all. 

*

 

It pleased Bucky to think of Steve whenever they raided a base and managed to make it back in one piece (for the most part). Bucky still loved bringing him back souvenirs.

He brought him back the lapel pin of an operative that they found skulking around the perimeter, once. Bastard clamped his teeth down on a cyanide tablet before they could bring him in for Phillips to interrogate, but Bucky snatched the pin from his long, ugly trenchcoat. It was made of sterling silver, a surprising luxury during a time of war. It was shaped like an octopus.

“Here, Rogers. Brought ya something shiny.” He pressed it into Steve’s palm. His best friend’s brows drew together, but he smiled as he examined it.

“Gee, Buck. Ya shouldn’t have. Ya _really_ shouldn’t have.”

“Only the best for my best buddy.”

It made its way into the box of Steve’s treasures, tucked right beside the remaining green Army men, almost blending in with the metal jacks.

Bucky once filched Steve a beautiful silver Cross pen from the embassy. He figured no one would miss it. 

On their march back to camp, after three days of slogging through rain puddles and tangled roots, Bucky met Steve in the mess hall and tucked a piece of shrapnel into his palm. It was shaped like a heart, of all things. “Might impress a girl. Ya never know.”

While Bucky and Dugan went out to reconnoiter with their contact in the next town, Bucky stopped at a small farmer’s cart. He brought Steve back a handful of roasted chestnuts. They ate them, enjoying them with tin cups of the base’s bad coffee, sitting by the campfire. Buck even brought back a pair of silk stockings for Peggy, managing to take them from a looter of a bombed-out storefront. That made Steve frown and hiss at him about being dishonest, but Peggy wore a look of scandalized delight as she accepted them. 

“You don’t quibble about these things, Captain,” she told him. She gave Bucky’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you for your generosity, Sergeant.”

For some reason, it felt good to bring Carter a gift, to please someone who Steve held in such high regard.

Steve had never tasted Belgian chocolate before. They ate the bars that Bucky won in a card game by the campfire while they reminisced about Bonnie’s horrible piano playing and Arnie’s toy planes. Remembering rum raisin ice cream in the park.

*

“Hey, Stevie.”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Knock, knock.”

Steve swiveled his head around to give his best friend a dubious look. Bucky smirked back at him from behind his rifle scope. “You’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t ya?”

“You know ya want to, Rogers. C’mon.”

Steve sighed with a mixture of amusement and preemptive regret. “Who’s there?”

Bucky’s expression was bland, but Steve could hear the glee in his voice. “Banana.”

“Banana who?”

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there, Buck?”

“Banana.”

“Banana, WHO?”

“Knock, knock.”

“Oh, God…”

“C’mon, Steve, answer the door?”

“Who’s there?”

“Orange.”

“Orange. Who.” There was a hint of warning in Steve’s voice, but Bucky ignored it.

“Orange you glad I didn’t say banana again?”

“I swear to God, Bucky, if you weren’t holding that rifle right now, I could clobber you.”

At least some things, even in the midst of war, never changed.

 

*

 

Bucky and Steve lingered in that tavern over beers that would get neither one of them drunk. 

“You’re keepin’ the uniform, right?”

“Y’know, it’s kinda growin’ on me.”

“Blue always was your color.”

“The tights itch, though.”

“Those tights are ridiculous, Rogers.”

Peggy stood across the bar, chatting with Private Lorraine, looking like sin personified in that red dress. If she’s meant to catch Stevie’s eye, that dress and _those legs_ did the job.

“You could be over there talkin’ to her, y’know.”

“We talk.”

“Doesn’t count when it’s over a map, Rogers. Go. Chat her up. She sure as shit ain’t planning to talk to _me_.”

Steve grinned at him then. “Take another crack at it, Buck. You might wear her down.”

“Sure I might, ya mook.”

They heard the piano play a few yards away, and Dugan, Dernier, Morita and Gabe began singing again, voices loud a little slurred from the tankards of heavy, dark ale. Steve and Bucky basked in the moment. It almost felt like sitting in the bar at home down the road from their tiny, shitty apartment, drinking watered down gin on the rare nights when they could afford it and listening to brass-heavy jazz. Steve’s voice came from just above Bucky’s ear, a sensation that was still strange to him. 

“I’m not good at it, y’know.”

“What? Talkin’ to dames like Carter?”

“No. Managin’ without you.”

 

*

 

They made a noble effort with the ale. It warmed them up, but they never managed to get drunk. 

Just spending the time together loosened their tongues as they walked back to Steve’s officer’s tent. “Few more minutes til lights out,” Steve reminded him.

“Remember when we’d stay up late and read comics after yer ma went to bed?”

Steve huffed a laugh as he sat down on his bunk, and the springs creaked beneath him. “I miss that.”

“Couch cushions never stopped smelling like liver after that one time that you hid yours under them so you wouldn’t hafta eat it.”

“Ma tanned my hide,” Steve reminded him, and that brought the mischievous gleam back into his baby blues that Bucky had sorely missed.

“You were supposed to eat it. Liver feeds your blood.”

“Then you can have my share.”

“I wasn’t the one who needed it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Mister ‘Hale and Hearty.’”

They’d weathered a harsh winter. So many of the men developed a cough and suffered from the ague of the bitter, cold nights, but Steve never caught so much as the sniffles now. Bucky remembered countless nights of feeding Steve aspirin and lozenges, swabbing his skin down with cold cloths and witch hazel, rubbing balm on his chest and making him breath in hot steam from a boiling pot on the stove. Steve was robust. His cheeks were rosy with good health. The wheeze in his chest and the little curve in his spine were both gone. He towered over half the men in their unit and now topped Bucky by a couple of inches.

Bucky missed the ease with which he used to wrap an arm around his shoulders. That dismay must have shown on his face to make Steve frown like that.

“Whatsamatter, Barnes?”

“Nuthin… Just… hey. You ever learn how to dance?”

Steve’s lips curled. “You mean, when I’m not on stage?”

“Not like that. With a dame. Not lifting ‘em over your head, either. Real dancing.”

Steve looked sheepish and hung his head, smiling to himself.

“C’mon, Rogers. Really? Still?”

“When was I gonna learn, Bucky?!”

Bucky snickered. “Know what? I haven’t been a true friend to you, Stevie. We’ve gotta get back to your dance lessons. You heard Carter. She needs the right dance partner.”

“Good Lord… aw, Buck, no!” But Bucky rose from the other cot, eyes gleaming, and he retrieved the radio sitting on the small side table. He turned it on and twisted the tuning knob, finding mostly static.

“There’s gotta be something good… oh, here we go. C’mon, Stevie.” They heard the station play a slow, lilting waltz. “It ain’t Bing Crosby, but it’ll do.”

“Bucky! Please, don’t!”

“C’mon. Get up and take a turn with me, Steve. You need practice.” 

“This is the last thing I need, Barnes.”

“Carter’ll thank me,” Bucky promised.

“I won’t.” But he didn’t fight Bucky - much - when he took his hand in his warm, firm grip and tugged him to his feet. “I’ll lead.” Bucky placed his hand on Steve’s waist, so narrow and taut. “You lead out there. I’ll lead in here.”

“Shaddup, Buck.”

Bucky smirked at him. “Nice and smooth, buddy. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Watch my toes. Well, don’t _watch_ ‘em, just don’t step on ‘em. That’s it.”

Their bodies were touching. Bucky’s grip on his hand was loose. Steve’s itched with the urge to tighten around those long fingers. He stared at the space above Bucky’s shoulder, cheeks burning with embarrassment even though they were the only people in the tent.

“You look like you’re concentratin’ so hard, Rogers. So focused.”

“You’re a terrible man, Barnes.”

“Hey, I’m light on my feet.”

“You’re light between the ears, too.”

“Aw, Stevie. You wound me.” 

The waltz played on, and Bucky hummed along to it in exaggerated tones, making Steve snicker. They were still warm from the ale as they circled slowly around the narrow space. The contact and the slow music was nothing new, but gravity and their bodies’ old habit of seeking each other out made them lean in, until Bucky’s head was tipped against Steve’s shoulder.

He could hear his heartbeat and the low catch of his breath. He felt Steve’s arm shift, so that it wrapped around him instead of letting his hand rest politely over his shoulder, and Bucky’s arm coiled around Steve’s waist as he felt himself melt against him. 

This wasn’t about dance lessons and finding the nerve to talk to Carter. This was about how good Steve felt in his arms, even if this was wrong, and anyone could walk in on ‘em any minute and haul them in before the Colonel and his sharp-eyed glare. And Steve’s fingers found their way into Bucky’s hair, curling into its short waves, and Bucky jerked his head back to stare up into Steve’s face, awed by the look of helplessness and need that he found there.

“Buck. I’m sorry.”

“Steve-”

But that mouth, that rosy, perfect mouth crushed Bucky’s, forcing a groan of satisfaction from him. The kiss was rough and poorly aligned, and Steve’s teeth scraped Bucky’s lip, but Bucky gave himself up to it while the next song played on. They clutched at each other, breathing each other’s air as they kissed. Rogers had no clue how to do this, but damn it, _Bucky would teach him if it was the last thing he ever did_. He slowed the pace, gentling the contact, tilting his head and yielding to him, letting his mouth drop open to let Steve taste him.

They broke apart, breathing hard and staring into each other’s eyes. Steve’s hand still cupped Bucky’s nape. Bucky palmed his cheek and felt the corners of his mouth lift.

“Think Carter would be impressed, pal, but your dancin’ still needs work.”

“Buck!”

“They’re gonna call lights out any second, Stevie.”

Steve nodded, and he leaned in again to make the best of it.

Bucky didn’t mind the lack of feminine perfume or the stickiness of lipstick. Steve tasted like ale and home and everything else that Bucky ever wanted.


	4. You’re Supposed to Laugh at the Punchline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Different century. New friends.
> 
> Same old Bucky and Steve. Bucky does his best to piece together what he remembers, including the bits that Steve conveniently left out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to try not to make this a big, messy chunk of recovery fic. I like recovery fic, but this is less about Bucky becoming his own person, and more of him and Steve rediscovering what they had, and building it into something they never dared to imagine.

A flash of green caught Steve’s eye from the top of his dresser as he walked past the doorway of his room, making him lurch to a stop and double back. He flicked on the light and got a better look at the unfamiliar object.

It was a jade elephant figurine, beautifully carved, and it felt smooth and cool in his palm. Steve huffed, feeling the corners of his mouth quirk up.

“Friday, who left this elephant in here?” he asked the tower’s AI.

“Sergeant Barnes, sir. He just arrived back from Beijing with Mr. Barton.”

“Thank you, Friday.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Can you tell me where he is now?”

“Down in the debriefing room with Mr. Stark.”

“Works for me.”

Steve stared down fondly at the figurine. Memories of other gifts flooded back to him, during poorer times, when a certain young man with pockets just as empty as Steve’s would share the places he’d been by bringing him back a little piece of it to make him smile.

“S’nice,” he murmured to himself. He had no clue what he’d _do_ with it, but he still set it on top of his bookshelf, where he was beginning to develop a collection of other odds and ends.

Souvenirs. All from Bucky.

Steve made his way back toward his small kitchenette and began to rummage through the refrigerator for items to make dinner. Tony’s staff went shopping every Thursday and kept his pantry well stocked. Steve pulled out potatoes, spinach, and a pack of chicken breasts, deciding to risk making the few foods from his mother’s meager catalog of recipes that he knew he wouldn’t burn. He peeled the potatoes, chunked them, and set them boiling in a separate sauce pan from the spinach. He heard Nat in his head, lecturing him about things like “wilting” spinach or serving it raw in a salad, or hovering over him and forcing him to read the recipe ideas while she thumbed through them on Pinterest.

Boiling worked for Steve.

The chicken, however, went into the oven with some spice rub that Sam turned him onto during one of his dinners at Sam’s condo in DC. Despite Tony’s standing offer of an apartment in the tower, Sam held off, claiming a need for “personal space” and remaining at the VA when he wasn’t “out Avenging.” Sam remained adamant about maintaining his residence in his old neighborhood, but his girlfriend, Monica, had moved to New York a few months ago with her roommate, Carol, and she was slowly wearing Sam down.

Steve watched an episode of _America’s Worst Cooks_ and snickered over some of the disasters the contestants served to the judges. Halfway through it, Steve heard a chirp from his smart watch. He hit the tiny button on it, and Bucky’s face appeared on the tiny screen. He was raccoon-eyed from exhaustion and his hair was slipping loose from his ponytail, hanging in lank strings around his face.

Yet his smile was fond, soft, and familiar. “Hey, Stevie.”

“Hey, Buck. How long have you been back?”

“Friday told me you were out running errands when I got back. Maybe a coupla hours.”

“Looks like somebody paid me a visit while I was out and left me a little gift.”

“Huh. Whaddya know? Must have a secret admirer or something.” Bucky smirked, and Steve heard Clint’s voice muffled in the background.

“Ask him if he wants pizza.”

“I don’t. Uh. That’s not what I meant… I mean, I’m already making something.”

Bucky’s face lit up. “Real food?”

Steve gave him a noncommittal tilt of his head and a disarming smile. “Edible. How about ‘edible?’”

“That works.”

Steve saw Bucky get shoved out of the camera view of his little screen, and Clint barged into that space. “Cap. We’re getting _pizza_. You don’t turn down _pizza_ , fer cryin’ out loud!”

“I’m good, Barton. All the more for you.”

“I’m gonna tell Nat you said that.”

“Why? What’s she going to do to me?”

“Nothing. I’m just telling her you said that, so she doesn’t give me the stink eye for eating your share. Later, Mr. Killjoy.”

Bucky wrestled the Stark phone back from Clint and gave Steve an apologetic look. “Okay. I’m gonna head up in a few minutes.”

“I promise the kitchen won’t be on fire when you get here.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Rogers. Just don’t poison us?”

“We’ve got the serum,” Steve hedged.

“I don’t need empirical proof that it works. No more than I already have, thanks.”

_Ouch._

Buck had a _point_ , because of course he did. As usual.

“Just come up, ya mook.”

“Yeah, yeah, ya punk. M’on my way.”

Steve watched the screen blink off, taking Bucky’s smile with it. Steve returned to his cooking, adding a little more salt to his boiling potatoes. Sam would tell him not to be shy with it if he were hovering by Steve’s elbow.

Bucky had opinions about food.

He’d been gaunt and hard, face too lean and sharp when he came to the tower. His large blue eyes overwhelmed his face, and they looked haunted. The thick, soft brown hair was unkempt and neglected, no longer shining, and that detail made Steve ache. Bucky had been so proud and confident back in Brooklyn. Spit-shined and polished. Perfect creases ironed into his slacks. Hair neat and gleaming with beeswax pomade and jaw cleanly shaved. He was a man who knew how to take care of himself and cut a dash.

Even when they had too little change in their pockets, Bucky and Steve did their best to eat well. Spreading the last heel of the bread with jam. Soups made from scraps of whatever meat that they had left. Potatoes. Beans. Whatever was cheap and wouldn’t spoil before they could cook it. 

Hydra tested the serum by starving him. A normal man could go a handful of days without food. The Winter Soldier went _two weeks_ in containment without so much as a crumb passing his lips. Hearing those words leave Bucky’s mouth made Steve sick. Reading the file that Natasha provided him sent Steve into his room for three days, on complete radio silence. It was too much to process. He hadn’t lost Bucky, but they’d taken so much of him away.

Meals, though.

They could handle eating together. Even if they couldn’t handle anything else, some days.

Food evoked memories. A whiff of nutmeg took Bucky back to a Christmas back in ‘32, when his aunt Agnes put too much of it into the apple pie.

“Remember her?” Bucky had asked him.

“She had that funny mole on her cheek,” Steve mentioned. “Remember when she’d send us to the store for cigarettes? She’d hand us a couple of dollars and a note?”

“Some of the change would get lost on the way home.”

“The licorice wheels disappeared on the way home, too.” They exchanged smirks, but Bucky begged off from the conversation, eyes clouding back over as he murmured something about needing to talk to Tony about a malfunction in the wiring in his arm. It was a struggle not to go after him. If Steve cared about him, he had to give Bucky his space.

But the memories were drifting back. Neither of them could stop them; sharing them was what took courage. 

Bucky’s footsteps still sounded the same. Steve felt the same tickle of anticipation as Bucky’s key turned in the lock. “Could’ve just asked Friday to open it,” Steve told him without looking up from his boiling pots.

“Where’s the fun in that? My fingers ain’t broken, punk.” Bucky came in and dropped his battered duffel on the couch and dropped the keys into a small, red glass bowl strictly for that purpose that Steve kept on the counter. They still had the small wooden plaque that Clint brought them back from Mexico that said “Aqui Estan Tus Pinches Llaves” and that was carved with little cacti, but they never thought to use it. At the sound of the keys clinking against the glass, Steve looked up, and his eyebrows did the thing that they did whenever his best friend surprised him.

“Is that… glitter?”

“Ya don’t wanna know.”

“I _must_ know,” Steve pleaded, stealing his favorite line from _The Princess Bride_.

Bucky sighed and shook his head, running his fingers through the back of his hair. “Right. So, we found this AIM outfit in Beijing. Barton and I flushed ‘em out into the open when we raided the building and set off a few smoke bombs. Barton picked a few of ‘em off from the roof. Problem was, there was a color run going on in the street.”

“Color run?”

“A road race,” Bucky filled in. “They were throwing glitter paint at the runners as they went by.”

There were flecks of it in Bucky’s hair. His flak jacket was daubed in it, garish splots of gold, pink, red and green staining the black leather and kevlar. 

“Looks like you rolled around at the eye shadow counter at Sephora.”

“What do you know about Sephora?”

“Pepper dragged me shopping at the galleria.”

“You need to learn how to say ‘no,’ Stevie.”

“To Pepper? Hush your lying mouth, pal.”

Bucky snickered and shook his head, and Steve was glad to see a glint of mischief return to his eyes. 

“Go shower.”

“That smells good.” Steve beamed. “Sure smells better than I do. That shower’s callin’ my name, Stevie.”

“Don’t rush. Use soap. And get behind your ears.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m goin,’ I’m goin’!” Bucky stuck his tongue out at him for good measure and crossed his eyes. Steve, in return, brandished his stirring spoon up in the air with mock menace. But he still felt that smile creeping back out across his mug.

Bucky was home.

Steve heard music playing in the bathroom, one of Bucky’s playlists that he programmed into Friday’s data banks. Bucky had a newfound love of movie soundtracks; this week, it was _Carlito’s Way_ , specifically “Rock the Boat,” and Steve felt a warm tickle in his chest when he heard Bucky singing along a little unevenly. It was… nice. Familiar.

Steve mashed the potatoes and drained the spinach, squirting a little lemon juice on the glistening greens. As an afterthought, Steve prepared some instant pudding for dessert, figuring Bucky might appreciate a little something sweet. They’d grown up with Sarah’s stovetop tapioca that always ended up with a slight skin on the top if you didn’t eat it soon enough. Instant pudding went on the Good List.

By the time Steve finished whipping the potatoes and plating the food, Bucky emerged from the bedroom, clad in dark sweats that hung low on his hips and a grey undershirt. His hair was slick and gleaming, and his jaw was clean-shaven. He looked fresh and relaxed, but his eyes still told Steve a different story.

They lit up a little when he saw the food. Steve slid a plate across the counter toward him as Bucky sat on one of the barstools. Bucky grinned at him, tipped his face down for a moment, and recited, “Good bread, good meat, good Lord, let’s eat!” before he took up his fork. He scooped up a bite of the potatoes and made an indecent sound of delight.

“ _Stevie._ Oh, my God… will you marry me?”

Steve snickered, almost choking on the spinach he’d just tasted.

“This was just what I wanted. Man, that hits the spot. I just… y’know how sometimes, you just want some simple food? Something that sticks to your ribs?”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “It ain’t Julia Child, but it’s food.”

“No, Stevie, don’t give yourself so little credit. This is _good_.” Bucky proceeded to inhale his chicken breast.

“Your ma and mine would both smack you upside the head for wolfing it down like that.”

“M’hungry. Give a guy a break, Rogers. Take it as a compliment.”

And Steve did, but he wouldn’t tell Bucky that. He just smirked as he ate his own food, pausing to get up and pour them both some juice. “There’s plenty for seconds.”

“I’m taking thirds. After that many days on the road, it’s just nice to eat somethin’ you made, Stevie. I’m just glad I’m back. In my own kitchen.” Steve hovered over him with the mashed potato pot, and Bucky nodded to him to dish him up another serving. “It’s nice to just have all this. I like not havin’ to worry about where our next meal is comin’ from, Stevie. And we don’t have to eat low on the hog unless we want to.”

“No more ketchup soup and crackers,” Steve agreed. Bucky shuddered at the memory and made a face.

“What kinda trouble did you get into without me while I was gone?”

“Chased down some intel that Nat dug up from her friends at the Kremlin. Broke up a child smuggling ring.”

Bucky blinked. “Kids?”

“Yeah. Kids.”

Bucky’s easy mood evaporated. “They’re still doing that.”

“Not if we can help it, Buck.”

“Natalia was taken from one of those orphanages. She told you?”

“She’s mentioned it. Once in a great while, she’ll talk to me.” Steve had no illusions about his friendship with Natasha. She “compartmentalized” the parts of herself that she shared. No Avenger knew everything there was to know about her, whether she called them a friend or not. Steve, after a fashion, felt flattered that she trusted him with those tidbits at all. Tightly locked boxes held treasures inside. 

They ate more quietly after that. Once they finished, Bucky beat Steve’s grab for the dirty dishes. “You cooked. Take a load off, Stevie.”

“You just got back, Buck. _You_ need to take a load off.”

“Nope. I don’t. Only thing I’ve gotta do, pal, is thank the chef.” And Buck rounded the counter, plates in hand, and he paused at Steve’s side. “Thanks for dinner, Stevie.” Before Steve could argue any further, Bucky’s hand curled over his shoulder, and he leaned in and kissed Steve’s cheek. As Steve processed that the contact happened, and as a flush spread its tingling path across his skin, Bucky headed for the sink, whistling as he cleared the stove and soaped up a sponge.

“You’re. Uh. Welcome. There’s. Pudding. Yeah. Pudding. Whenever you feel like having any, Barnes.”

“See? See how good you are t’me, Rogers? This is why I come home.”

“Hope my pudding’s not the _only_ reason.”

Bucky craned his head over his shoulder and tsked. “That whole ‘I get to live and function on my own free will’ thing might have a little something to do with it, Steve. But I wouldn’t want ya t’get a swelled head. It’s big enough, already.”

Bucky turned back to his dishes, and then yelped moments later when the wound-up, rat-tailed towel snapped him in the butt.

*

And maybe Steve didn’t try to read too much into it, either, when Bucky eschewed Steve’s attempt to hand him a small dish to serve him the pudding, instead taking the whole bowl and a couple of spoons, grabbing Steve’s arm, and dragging him to the couch. He plunked himself down, patted the space next to him, and waited for Steve to sink down next to him before he handed him a spoon.

“Don’t get fancy with me, buddy. Eat yer puddin’ like a man. Hey, turn on that British Bake-Off show.”

Bucky smelled like shower gel and warm, fresh skin. He was a warm, solid presence beside Steve, their shoulders knocked together as they enjoyed dessert without ceremony.

“Ma would be disappointed,” Steve muttered.

“Yup. She’d hang her head in shame.”

“Dress you up, Barnes, you can’t take ya anywhere.”

“Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“I missed you.”

Steve almost dropped the glob of pudding off his spoon when Bucky gave his shoulder a nudge. They exchanged smirks. Steve felt a buzz of happiness settle over him.

“I miss you too, jerk.”

*

 

A few weeks later, while they staked out a Hydra warehouse that stockpiled an arsenal of weapons derived from the Chitauri wreckage, they watched the technicians and staff loading the gear into crates. Bucky lay on his stomach, peering through his scope over the edge of the roof.

“Hey. Stevie. Knock, knock.”

“What?” Steve hissed.

“C’mon. Answer the door. Knock, knock.”

Steve jerked his head around to face Bucky and gave him an incredulous look. “What. The _fuck._ Bucky. Seriously?”

“C’mon. Answer the door, Rogers, don’t leave me hangin’!” Bucky’s expression was sly and pleased, at odds with the dark camouflage makeup smeared under his eyes. 

Steve narrowed his eyes at him. “Really?” he huffed.

“Yeah. C’mon. Ask me. You _know_ you wanna know.”

“There’s Hydra operatives about to ship and sell weapons made from alien tech that could level a Manhattan high-rise, and you’re asking me a knock-knock joke?”

“I’m askin’ it, buddy, but you’re not goin’ along with the script. C’mon. Humor me.”

“I wanna hear it,” Clint interrupted over the comm. He was on the other end of the roof, twenty yards away and covering Natasha’s six from her position on the ground. “Ask him who’s there, Cap. Before I hafta shoot anybody.”

“How is this even…? Y’know what? Okay. Fine.” Steve sighed, and he finally asked “Who’s there?”

“A little old lady.” There was a hint of suppressed glee in Bucky’s tone.

“A little old lady, who?”

“All this time, I had no idea you could _yodel_.”

Steve and Bucky heard Clint’s snerking laughter over the comm. “God, I’ve been had,” Steve muttered.

“That was great,” Clint chuckled. “I _love_ that one.”

“You should both be ashamed.”

“You’re supposed to _laugh_ at the punchline, sweetheart.”

“I can’t. Then I’d be encouraging this.”

“Screw that, Cap. Barnes, tell us another one!”

“Isn’t this a stake-out?”

“Make with the knock-knock jokes, Soldier!” Clint hissed.

“Oh, God…”

“Knock, knock.”

Steve rolled his eyes, a gesture that was more strongly emphasized by his helmet’s faceplate. “Who’s there?”

“Olive.”

“Olive, who?” Steve knew it was going to be horrible, but he sensed Bucky’s anticipation. He wouldn’t admit that it warmed him to see that mischievous smile. Holding a rifle, dressed in flak gear in the middle of the night, and taking care of business with his best friend was Bucky Barnes’ favorite place to be. And Steve decided he could let him have this. 

Why the hell not?

Life was short. Even for them.

“Olive you. Do you love me, too?”

Steve bit his lip, and his chest silently shook. Bucky’s eyes twinkled.

Another low snort broke across the comm. “Awwwww.” That was Natasha. “I heard that, Yakov.”

“Aw, Nat, don’t!” 

“What, Rogers? It was cute. Mushy, but cute.”

“That was a little sickening,” Clint admitted, but he was still enjoying it. “C’mon, one more.”

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Thermos.”

“Thermos, who?”

“Thermos be a better way of getting through to you.”

“Boooooooooooo.” Steve wasn’t impressed.

“How could you not appreciate that? That one was _great_ ,” Clint told Steve. “God, what an ingrate…”

“Look alive, boys. I’m going in.” Nat made her move, and Steve heard the distinctive hum of her stingers.

“Told you I’m funny.”

“Har-de-har-har,” Steve confirmed as he took a running leap off the roof.

 

*

“So, we’re not gonna say anything about the fact that Bucky and Cap just rode home on Cap’s motorcycle together?” Clint murmured to Natasha as he zip-tied the ankles of one of the Hydra operatives. 

She shook her head, barely disturbing her perfect auburn waves. “Nope. Beating a dead horse.”

Clint snickered, then.

“What?”

“All this time, I had no idea you could yodel…”

“Oh, cut it out, Barton.”

*

 

A month later, Bucky came home with a souvenir for Steve, and one for himself.

Seeing Bucky leaning back on the gurney, bleeding from a deep wound in his shoulder, erased any casual greeting from Steve’s lips. “Buck!”

“Heyyyyyyy. Stevie. _Stevie._ ” Bucky poked the young infirmary technician as she took his temperature, running the little wand over his forehead. “This guy. _This guy_ right here. Ain’t he cute?”

“Buck?”

“We gave him a loading dose of painkillers,” she explained to Steve, which explained the loopy, glazed smile on Bucky’s face. “He’s a little out of it, right now.”

“Nope! I’m right here! All in one piece… oh, wait.” He waved his metal arm at no one in general. “Oopsie!”

The technician bit her lip. He elbowed her again. “C’mon. That was funny.”

“I haven’t seen you this torn up since the night before you shipped out to basic,” Steve admitted.

“Soooooo much gin.”

“Wasn’t pretty.”

“Sure wasn’t. You were, though, Stevie baby.”

The technician began cleaning Bucky’s wound with sterile water, and she glanced up and silently mouthed “Stevie baby?” at him, enjoying Steve’s helpless, indulgent smile.

“Hey. Stevie. Have a seat. Take a load off. I am. And I brought ya a little something.” His voice was still a little slurred, but his eyes lit up as he arched a little, struggling to reach into his pocket. “Here, here.” He shoved the small object in Steve’s general direction, and Steve reached out to take it before he could drop it.

Steve peered down at the gleaming, but slightly tarnished locket. Old-fashioned, engraved with hearts and flowers on the lid. Shock stole Steve’s words, and his fingers shook as he fumbled with the teeny clasp. The chain dangled over his palm as he prized it open, and Steve found his own picture, sitting opposite his father’s.

“So, funny story. I happened to be in Brooklyn,” Bucky told him as she continued to clean his shoulder, picking out bits of shrapnel with tweezers. “And I got a tip from the landlord that he had a buyer interested in the building. Did you know our old place was kept vacant after word got out that you enlisted? Once the first movie you made hit the screen, Stevie, our old, shithole apartment became a goddamned _shrine_. No one ever bothered to clean it. But, the thing is, the Smithsonian went in there back in ‘73 and rooted through your old stuff.”

“I gave most of it away.”

“I think you hid this from yourself, sweetheart. Think it slipped down into the floorboards when you were packing up her things.”

“Oh, God…”

“It’s still in good shape, Stevie. Just needs a little polish.”

The photographs were faded into sepia tones, but he recognized his younger, frailer self. He also saw his father’s face, now, whenever he looked into the mirror, and it made something inside him crack. Steve’s throat felt thick when he spoke.

“How did you find this?”

“Yeah. I was getting to that. So, the buyer was Hydra. They were sweeping the apartment with little scanners, and trying to pick up traces of your DNA. Guess they were lookin’ for mine, too. They aren’t done with trying to harvest genetic material from the two of us to recreate the serum.”

“That’s pretty skeevy,” the technician muttered as she packed the wound. “I had an ex like that, once. Total stalked. I mean, maybe he wasn’t trying to get my DNA, but just knowing he’d been in my apartment when I wasn’t there after we split was creepy as _fuck_. Found a pair of my panties missing, too. Which is bullshit, because Victoria’s Secret ain’t cheap.”

“Sure ain’t, doll,” Bucky agreed.

“How would _you_ know?”

“Nat gets the catalog. Let a guy appreciate the pictures, Rogers.” Then, Bucky smiled down at the locket. “Remember when you’re ma used to wear that when she went to church?”

“Yeah. She sure did.”

“She was so pretty. God, she was pretty, Stevie, just like you.”

“How are we feeling, Sergeant Barnes?” the technician asked him. “Any pain?”

“NnnnnnnnOPE.”

Steve’s smile was incredulous. He closed the tiny locket and tucked it into his shirt pocket for safekeeping. 

“I just thought you were gonna bring me back something from the bakery on your way home.”

“Sorry, pal.”

“It’s okay. Maybe we can both go, next time.”

“All ya hafta do is say so, Stevie.” Bucky’s smile was warm and bleary. He perked up a moment later and told him, “But don’t plan on goin’ back to our old place. The guy kinda blew it up. When I had my finger on the trigger, he had his on the detonator.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Sorry, pal.”

“S’okay.” The technician put the finishing touches on Bucky’s wound dressing, covering it with a large island dressing and taping it in place. “Hey, Marie?” Steve asked. “Can I have a minute with Sergeant Barnes?”

“What? Oh, you need me to skedaddle?”

“Skedaddling would be nice, yes. Just for a few minutes.”

“That’s fine. I’ll go chart out in the hall.”

“Appreciate it.”

“No problem. Okay. Showing myself the door.”

Her lilac purple scrubs and soft-soled Nikes disappeared from the room, leaving the two of them alone. Bucky glanced at her departing back, then up at Steve.

“You okay, Stevie?”

Steve nodded, but his smile faltered, and Bucky heard the small hitch in his breath.

“Aw, Stevie… don’t…”

Steve’s face crumpled, and he clutched his shirt pocket, shaking his head.

“Stevie…”

“I’m okay, it’s… you brought this back. You brought it back to me.”

Bucky grunted as he sat up, swinging his legs down from the gurney. Steve protested his efforts, trying to hold him down, but Bucky swatted his hand away and instead pulled Steve in. It was as much an awkward grapple as it was a hug, and Steve grunted as Bucky’s strong arms squeezed some of the air from his lungs. “S’all you had left of her. Couldn’t leave it there. It’s yours, baby.”

The sound that escaped Steve was halfway between a laugh and a sob, and his arms returned Bucky’s embrace. Bucky’s hair smelled like smoke, but Steve was just so glad that he made it back to him. Just to one-up Steve, Bucky wrapped his ankles around Steve’s calves, too, nearly knocking him off balance, and this time, Steve did laugh through his tears.

“Why do I put up with you?”

“Because you love me, Rogers.”

“Nah. That can’t be it.”

 

That was _exactly_ it.

*

 

“Thermos, who?”

“Thermos be a better way of getting through to you.”

Clint snickered at his own punchline. “Get it? Thermos be a better way-”

“No. No, I don’t. Where’s the joke?” Brunnhilde stared at him with a bewildered, hesitant smile. Thor, in this case, was little help. He recovered from his own bout of loud, appreciative snickers and patted her shoulder.

“It’s humorous! Thermos! It’s… you see, it’s clever. A thermos. Humans use them to keep their coffee hot. Which reminds me, I need to introduce you to Starbucks. It’s a quaint little tavern where you can get coffee, truly a superior drink-”

“That’s not. That’s not explaining the punchline,” Clint reminded him. He turned to Sam. “How did I just lose these two?”

“By opening your mouth,” Sam murmured around a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich.

“Aw, no! C’mon, Wilson, I’ve got a million of ‘em!”

“He really does.” Natasha stood at the counter, leaning her hip against the edge of it as she ate a spinach salad. “We stopped at the bookstore yesterday.”

“Well, go ahead, Barton, tell her another.” Brunnhilde’s smile grew long-suffering as Clint urged her to answer the door six more times, with increasingly confusing replies.

“They’re… they’re puns,” Thor supplied.

“Uh. Huh.”

“Right. Well, let’s take you Starbucks. Ah, Banner! Care for coffee?”

“I’m fine at the moment,” Bruce told him, holding up his cup of green tea. “Can’t do too much caffeine. Disagrees with the big guy.”

“Nonsense,” Brunnhilde told him as she sidled up to him and pinched his cheek. “Don’t call my sweet green darling ‘disagreeable.’”

“Please, don’t do that…”

Brunnhilde continued to make kissy faces at Bruce and squoosh his cheeks in her palms. “Wooga-wooga-wooga…”

Nat nearly choked on her salad.

“She’s woogying his face.” Clint’s tone was awed.

“All right. That’s… that’s enough of that.” A hint of what looked like jealousy flitted over Thor’s face, and he tugged the petite Valkyrie along by the arm. “Let Banner drink his tea.”

Brunnhilde rolled her eyes and gave Thor a playful pout. But she turned back to Bruce and promised him, “Angry girl’s coming back to play after this.”

Bruce flushed deep scarlet and set down the cup of tea on the counter before he could drop it. He rubbed his nape and mumbled something under his breath about needing to find Tony in the lab before rushing off.

“Aw.” Brunnhilde folded her arms and gave Thor a mulish look. “You scared him off.”

“ _I_ scared him off?”

“That’s just how our friendship works,” she explained to him. 

Thor made a noncommittal sound and scratched his brow, just above his leather patch.

“Been meaning to tell ya, big guy, that haircut’s agreein’ with you,” Clint told him, reaching up to ruffle Thor’s spiky, shorn blond locks.

“Takes a bit of getting used to. It’s too short to plait. It takes time to grow a mane as long and virile as that; you don’t simply-”

“Virile?” Brunnhilde snorted. “Hulk would have gotten a good, firm handful of it and dragged you around the arena like a rag doll.”

“Sounds like he did that, anyway,” Clint suggested.

Thor’s eye crackled with small, blue threads of electricity in response to that claim.

“Okay! Won’t keep you! Go get that coffee!” Clint told them.

Steve and Bucky entered the common room, drawing attention to Bucky’s uneven gait and the grip Steve had on him. Steve’s eyes were red-rimmed, but he gave the room a casual smile.

“Captain! Sergeant Barnes! Barton told me the tale of your miraculous escape from the explosion!”

“Yeah, had to run hell for leather from that dump,” Bucky told him, grinning. He was leaning on Steve, who was trying to support him. Steve hoped Bucky didn’t metabolize the painkillers too quickly before he healed, but he didn’t want to keep him out in the open, babbling and acting unlike his usual, terse self. “Hey, hot stuff,” Bucky told Brunnhilde, letting his eyes sweep over her appreciatively. “What’s a nice kid like you doin’ in a place like this?”

She laughed at him outright, reached out, and squooshed his cheeks.

“Starbucks!” Thor cried. “Let me get your coat!”

“I like her, Stevie. She has a strong grip. And great bone structure,” Bucky muttered as Steve led him away.

“Sure does, buddy.”

“And dimples!”

“Okay. Let’s go, Buck.”

She stared after them for a few moments. “There such a disturbance in his aura.”

“His mind, and his spirit, was fractured.”

“And his body,” she mused. “Mortals crafted that arm of his?”

“To the best of my knowledge.”

“Clever.” Then she turned to him, folding her arms. “How long have they been in love?”

“What?”

“Forever,” Nat told her, mouth garbled as she worked on a mouthful of cucumber and tomato. “Most clueless couple of goofballs you ever met. They aren’t fooling anybody except themselves.”

“Friends on the playground and the battlefield,” Clint quoted, then added “and in the bedroom, if they ever get their heads outta their asses.”

“Clint,” Nat warned him, “not in front of my salad.”

Thor held up his hand and opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but then changed his mind.

 

Steve and Bucky made it back to Bucky’s bedroom. Bucky sank down onto the bed and stared blearily up at him, smiling. “You always tried to carry me up the steps. Back when we used to go out. It was a good effort, Stevie.”

“When you got drunk? Were you doubting me back then, Barnes?”

“Never. Never, ever!”

Steve knelt down and reached for Bucky’s feet. “Let me help you get those off.” He unlaced his boots and undid the straps. Bucky huffed a sigh of relief as Steve tugged it off, wiggling his toes at him for good measure. Steve gave them a fond, brief squeeze.

“I’m supposed to take care of _you_ , Rogers.”

“I’m not the one full of shrapnel right now, though, so.”

“Oh, it’s like that, now?” Bucky borrowed Sam’s favorite phrase.

“Oh, it’s like _that_.”

“Y’know what?”

“What?”

“Knock, knock.”

Steve’s head dropped, and he facepalmed, rubbing his eyes. “Who’s there?”

“Otto.”

“Otto, who?” Steve already sensed it was gonna be a stinker.

“Otto know what’s taking you so long!”

“Aw, Buck! That was _horrible!_ That was bad, even for you!”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. Where do you keep finding these?”

“Here and there. Hey, Stevie?”

“Yeah, Buck?” Steve worked off his other boot and paused to rub some of the circulation back into his foot.

“What’s taking you so long?”

Steve’s fingers paused. “What-”

“You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to impress, Rogers.”

Time stopped. Steve suddenly heard his heartbeat speed up, pounding in his ears. His eyes slowly rose to rest on Bucky’s face. There was that smile, wan and tired. But there was uncertainty in this eyes that Steve never thought he would find there. Steve shook his head as he processed his words. “Impress… _me_?”

“Yeah. For as long as I’ve known you, punk.”

“ _Bucky._ ”

“S’all I’ve ever wanted, Stevie. Figured you’d read through any line of bullshit I gave you, but that never stopped me from trying, y’know?”

Steve shook his head again, and his eyes burned. He gave Bucky a wobbly, incredulous smile. “Bucky. I… you’ve never had to _impress_ me. You don’t… Jesus.”

“But I wanted to. The only thing that kept me going, even on my worst days, was thinking about that smile of yours, and remembering how you sounded when you laughed. Sometimes, when I woke up from a long freeze, I’d see you. Just small moments. Bits and pieces. Before they’d wipe me, I was still in Brooklyn. I was still sitting with you in front of the space heater, eating sandwiches that were barely more than bread. Or I was watching the city parade with you from the fire escape. Or watching you draw sketches on the program at church until your ma turned around and told you to quit it.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse and wistful. “They kept me in the dark. You were the only bright thing whenever they’d turn out the lights, Stevie.”

Steve shook his head, disbelieving.

Bucky expelled a rattling breath to keep it from catching in his chest. “And you were always so good. You were the best thing in my life, Stevie. I hated leaving you… _behind_...”

Bucky’s voice broke, and this time, Steve was the one who surged up and pulled him close. Bucky’s breath rushed out, and he clutched at Steve, breathing him in, _completely_ unwilling to let him go this time. “I never wanted to leave you.”

“I know. I know that, Buck.”

“I was so fucking afraid of what could happen to you, and Sarah was gone. There I was, the jackass that promised you I’d come home-”

“You did, dumbass. Took seventy years, but you _came back to me_.”

“Stevie-”

“You _came back_. You never had to impress me. All I ever wanted was to have you back.”

Snow. Broken, twisted metal. Bucky’s screams. They always haunted his dreams, his last impressions before he jerked mercifully awake, bathed in his own sweat. The man that Steve was back in Brooklyn died the day that Bucky fell; his entire soul _dissolved_.

“You were my everything.”

Bucky rubbed his back, and one of his ankles crept around to the back of Steve’s leg again, a silent statement. 

“All I ever wanted to do was see you smile,” Bucky told him. “Guess that means you were my everything too, Rogers. That hasn’t changed, y’know.”

“I always thought you were playin’ Cupid so I could find a dame who’d say two words to me.”

Bucky laughed, a ragged, wet sound. “I wish I was that noble, Rogers. Sometimes, I think I really wanted you to find a nice girl. But most nights, I’d get down on my knees and thank God that you hadn’t found that right girl, yet. I thought I lost you to Carter, until that night in the tent.”

“I never had a chance with her.”

“Yes you did, Stevie. She had hearts in her eyes every time you walked in the room. I know that, because so did I. I know what carryin’ a torch for you looks like, and I definitely know how it feels.”

Steve drew back, but he didn’t let go of him. He reached up stroked Bucky’s jaw, cradling it. “Does it feel like this does now?”

“Rogers, just shut up and kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was going to be the very, VERY end of this, but I have an epilogue in mind to wrap this up. I PROMISE it won't take me too long to post it. I hope. Stay tuned.


	5. Sweet Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky do something they’ve waited their whole lives for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: All right. THIS IS IT. The last hurrah. Thank you for sticking with me this long. One more last, big thank you to haspel-and-berry for bidding on my auction.

The Costa Rican shore was pristine and white, cleaner than the beach at Coney Island. There were no odors of hot dogs or cotton candy and air pollution from the downtown traffic. Steve felt the wind sweeping over him, ruffling his hair. His limbs felt languid and relaxed. The sun beat down on him and warmed his still-damp flesh, drying him after his swim. Their snorkeling gear lay atop the stack of extra beach towels. The scents of sunscreen and the beach’s native flowers tickled his nose.

“If ya roll over, Rogers, I can do your back.”

“You’ve already slathered me in it _twice._ ”

“And you don’t have a sunburn yet, either. You’re _welcome_.”

Steve rolled slightly to face Bucky, who was sitting up in a folding, webbed chair. His hair was tied back from his face, and he wore a Dodgers cap and sunglasses. He was reading a thick hardcover novel from the airport newsstand and working on a Corona with lime. Steve’s lips curled when he saw Bucky’s eyes flick his way. He wiggled his eyebrows at Steve for good measure.

“You’re really plannin’ on reading that thing the whole time we’re on vacation?”

“Not the whole time. I’m almost two-thirds through it. It’s decent. And we already snorkeled. We’re doing the ‘touristy’ stuff already. We won’t miss anything, Rogers. Besides, it’s only been two days.”

And they had a whole week. Steve huffed and rolled back onto his back. Bucky had a point. It took an act of congress to get either of them to slow down and just live in the moment. They might as well enjoy it before it was gone.

That summed them up to a tee. So many missed chances, found again. The clock reset itself for this thing that lived between them, burning just as brightly as it did the the day they met. Bucky contacted the Smithsonian and pressed them about Steve’s old belongings. They held many of them in safe deposit boxes, for “safe keeping,” another load of bullshit Bucky wasn’t buying.

Bucky’s sister saved what she could of Bucky’s things. She swept through the old apartment before their landlord could throw anything out and retrieved his old mementos, civilian clothing and bedding. Steve had no one to preserve the physical memory of him. He had no one who missed him. 

So. He belonged fully to Bucky, now. He called dibs.

“Wanna beer, Stevie?”

“Ain’t much point in it, Buck.”

“Sure, there’s a point. S’nice on a hot day. Feels real smooth goin’ down. C’mon. Here.” Bucky reached into the cooler and grabbed another Corona. He used the cooler lid to slap off the cap before handing Steve the cold brew; cool curls of mist rose from the lip.

“Least you’re not shoving the bottle against my back like you used to. Big jerk.”

“Awwwww, you loved it when I yanked your chain, Rogers.” Bucky sipped his own beer. “Still do.”

He wasn’t wrong. Steve smirked before he took a sip, just for posterity. Alcohol still did _nothing_ for him, but a beer signified that Steve and Bucky had this time to themselves. Leisure. Income. Safety. A secure roof over their heads. All of the things they never had in Brooklyn, or while they were soldiers, allowed them to crack open a couple of Coronas and watch the waves roll in because they didn’t have to worry about them anymore. No one would send Bucky another draft letter again to rip him out of Steve’s hands. They traded long, heartfelt letters sent overseas for Post-Its stuck to the refrigerator or the bathroom mirror in the apartment that they now shared. Bucky exited the shower to notes scrawled in the mirror’s steam, and he never failed to smile at their distinctive, dripping streaks.

Steve finished half his beer before he used his abandoned shoe as a makeshift cupholder. Just as he rolled onto his back, Bucky hunched over him, brandishing the sunscreen bottle.

“Bucky…!”

“Quit yer whining, Rogers.” Bucky feigned impatience as he unscrewed the cap.

“Can you get unscented next time?”

“What? You complainin’?” Bucky grinned as he squirted some into his palm. “You like pina coladas. Now, you smell like one. _You’re welcome._ ”

“GAH!”

“Ooh. Was that cold?” Bucky let some of it drip onto Steve’s chest before his palm landed there, and he smeared it unrepentantly over his skin, now hot from his time in the sun. Steve shivered and arched up with an annoyed little hiss.

“Next time, do that when I’ve just gotten out of the water! Not after I’ve had the chance to warm up.” Despite his warnings, Steve liked the feel of Bucky’s hands on him, roughly kneading his flesh and smoothing the cream over him until the white streaks disappeared.

“Do you just _want_ to turn into a lobster, punk?”

“I almost never burn, now!”

“It doesn’t tickle when ya do, though, right?”

 

Point taken.

 

Bucky slicked the lotion over his shoulders and chest, slowly covering his upper arms. A couple of minutes later, Steve’s muscles relaxed and went slack. Bucky kneaded the muscles in his trapezius and neck, and massaged his pecs. Steve wasn’t the only one reacting to the contact between them.

The corner of Steve’s mouth quirked. “Gettin’ a little familiar there, arentcha?”

“Me? No. Noooooooo. Not me. Not at all.”

Steve snorted.

Then he hissed out a shaky breath when Bucky’s fingertips grazed his nipple.

“Oops. Sorry, buddy. Didn’t wanna miss a spot.”

“I don’t think ya missed it, babe.”

“Didn’t want it to burn.” Bucky slicked a little more of the lotion over Steve’s flesh. Steve enjoyed how Bucky’s fingers felt skimming over the contours of his muscles, and his fingertip flicked over his nipple again. Steve’s abdomen jumped in response. “Just lookin’ out for you, pal.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“If you wanna roll over, I can get your back, like I said I was gonna.”

“Maybe you’re not done with my front, yet, Buck.”

Before Bucky could react, Steve wrested the lotion bottle out of his hand and tossed it aside, heedless of the still-open cap. A few tiny drops splashed over Steve’s large beach blanket, and Bucky whooped and cackled as Steve wrestled him down against him. The two of them laughed and rolled, tickling each other and struggling for dominance, until Bucky went slack against Steve. His baseball cap fell off during the scuffle, freeing several long tendrils of hair to hang down around his face. He looked flushed and happy, and Steve reached up and cupped his nape in his palm, pulling him down into a hungry, sizzling kiss.

This was something they did, now.

Steve and Bucky gradually abandoned the concept of “personal space.” The afternoon in the infirmary opened the flood gates, and Steve and Bucky never let an opportunity for honest affection pass, since. They bumped elbows whenever they brushed their teeth, even though they had double sinks at the vanity. Steve never walked past Bucky while he was flipping pancakes without knocking his shoulder into his, just to throw off his spatula toss and annoy him. Bucky simply got him back in the middle of the night, coming to bed after Steve retired and cramming his icy cold toes against Steve’s calves to hear him yelp. Whoever laid down on the couch first became a footrest for the other, or a head scratcher. Or a pillow.

Whoever woke up first in the middle of the night, crying out with the too-sharp memories, had to make the tea, pop the popcorn and find the good blanket to bring out to the couch. That was their ongoing deal, and it worked. Stark’s fancy plasma screen TV caught them up on all they’d missed, throwing a bluish glow over their faces. Bucky discovered Nickelodeon and Boomerang. They watched old Andy Griffith and I Love Lucy episodes, amused that they were still in black and white; it was comforting to see this bit of history, which like them remained unchanged. They shared everything, always in each other’s orbit.

Bucky tasted him, making an obscene noise when Steve’s fingers tangled in his hair. Their skin and hair were gritty with salt and sand, and they both reeked of sweat and coconut sunscreen. Bucky felt Steve harden against him through his damp swim trunks, making him groan with need. The waves lapping against the sand faded in their ears, muted by the sound of their breathing. 

It was glorious. They’d arrived at the beach before the rest of the tourists, early enough to watch the sun rise, and they’d jogged down the shore until the clouds finished changing color. A brisk, short swim rinsed off the sweat. They treaded water in the surf and kissed, floated languidly and played.

“This beats the old city pool by a mile,” Steve mused. Bucky nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

They returned to the beach after a leisurely breakfast of lime-drizzled street tacos and fruit salad with pico de gallo. Sometimes, they wanted to swim, or snorkel; sometimes, they just enjoyed searching for interesting shells and walking in the surf, letting the waves suck at their toes. It felt so strange not to have anywhere they had to be in a hurry. No one yelling into their comms. No one giving orders. No one “sending up the Bat signal,” as Clint so charmingly put it.

The best part was being able to look at Bucky, to _really look at him_ , and drink him in without worrying about it being wrong. And Steve only had eyes for Bucky Barnes, so help him. And maybe Bucky couldn’t go five minutes without having to help Steve pull his head out of his own ass on even the _best_ of days, but Steve noticed a hint of reddened, dry skin across the tip of his nose.

“You’re on my tail about sunscreen, and you’re already burned yourself, ya jerk!”

“It’ll peel to a tan,” he lied. It was Clint’s favorite claim whenever he came home looking “well done” from any of his trips to the lake.

“You’re gonna peel like a snake.” Steve reached up and removed Bucky’s shades, and his eyes held mischief.

“We’re got aloe and Noxzema in the suitcase. I’ll live.” Bucky gave his hips a little wiggle, and Steve thrust back up at him, just a little, tempting roll that made Bucky’s breath catch. He leaned down and teased Steve’s lips with his. Every time he withdrew, Steve chased them back, nipping at him until Bucky gave him what he craved, opening for him so that he could lick into his mouth. _Bucky. Bucky._ He consumed Steve’s consciousness, replacing every thought with each stroke of his lips and hands. _Bucky_.

Just as things were getting interesting, Bucky’s wadded-up towel vibrated. Bucky grunted mid-kiss. “The fuck,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he attempted to free his phone from it without abandoning his human mattress. Steve “oof’ed” halfheartedly and made a face, and he snickered at Bucky’s low curses. 

“Thought I set this thing to ‘do not disturb…” He swiped to accept the call, though, and huffed a laugh as he answered. “This better be good, Barton.”

“Somebody’s testy. Thought goin’ on vacation and gettin’ away from it all was supposed to leave you in a good mood, Barnes.”

“Then let me get away from it all. You’re interrupting my quality time. Bucky sat upright, straddling Steve’s hips. He gave him a little thrust for good measure while he spoke to Clint on camera.

“Why are you wiggling around like that?”

“Dunno. Ask Steve. Here.” And Bucky turned the phone around slowly, so that Clint saw Steve instead, lying on his back and happily disheveled. Steve gave him a smirk and a wave and wiggled beneath Bucky for good measure just to get the point across that Clint’s interruption was entirely unwelcome.

“Aw, nooo! Bucky, NO! Are you two seriously…? Okay, I get it, I’m in the way. Cap, please stop making that face!”

“What face?”

“You know what face. That wasn’t meant for my tender, innocent eyes.”

Bucky turned the phone back in his own direction. “Why’d you call, Barton?”

“Just getting an ETA on when you’d be back. And cuz I’m bored.”

“Where’s Natasha?”

“Spain. She’s checking in with her contacts. There was a subway bombing.”

Bucky immediately stopped teasing Steve’s hard-on and remained still. “She went alone?”

“Nah. She rendezvous with Wanda in about six hours. She’ll cover her back.”

“And she left you alone. Unsupervised.”

“Eh. She just told me I couldn’t come.”

“Pitiful,” Bucky pronounced.

“Ain’t it, though? Hey, c’mon. You could tell me a few consolation knock-knock jokes, if you were feeling generous.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Really?” he mouthed at Bucky. But his lover grinned down at him and shrugged. He thrust down at him to head off the complaints before they could begin, making Steve bite back a little gasp. Steve’s fingers stroked the length of Bucky’s hard thighs, balling themselves up in the slick fabric of his swim shorts. The light scrape of Steve’s blunt nails along his flesh made Bucky’s dick twitch with interest. Bucky’s eyes darkened with arousal, glazing slightly.

“Ah, never mind,” Clint muttered. “I’m heading out onto the range to shoot some shit. You’re no fun anymore, Barnes.”

“Sure he is,” Steve argued. He reached for the drawstring at Bucky’s waist and loosened the little toggle clasp as far as it would go. “Hey, Clint. Knock, knock?”

Bucky snickered, turning the phone around so Clint faced Steve, instead.

“Who’s there?”

“Pasture.”

“Pasture, who?”

“Pasture bedtime, what’re you still doin’ up?”

“Ahhhh. Hahahahahaha. Good one. Okay. I get it. I’ll fuck off, now. Enjoy yourselves. Don’t tell me about it when you get back.” 

Clint rang off the call without waiting for a goodbye. He chucked the phone aside and leaned down to kiss Steve, lifting his hips to let him slide down his trunks. His flesh jutted free, already gleaming at the tip.

“Sounded like one of my jokes,” he told him between kisses. His voice grew rough and breathy. “Thought ya didn’t think I was funny?”

“Sure I think you’re funny, Buck.” A lock of Bucky’s hair fell free and grazed Steve’s cheek, and Steve smoothed it back, cupping Bucky’s cheek. “You’re _hilarious_.”

Bucky snickered again and kissed him, long, deep and slow. His mouth traced a hot path down Steve’s throat, chest and belly. Bucky peered at up at him through his lashes as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of Steve’s shorts and tugged, and moments later, Steve’s laugh gave way to a groan of want as Bucky engulfed him.

Steve listened to the rattle of palm leaves swaying in the breeze and the crash of the waves underscoring the sweet sounds of Bucky sighing and grunting around his flesh. His mouth was hot and satiny, and Steve couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting up into it. Bucky teased him with shallow bobs of his head, lips stretched around his girth. The tip of his tongue darted around the head, making Steve’s breath go choppy. His flesh kept jerking and twitching in response. Every cell of his body craved Bucky, anticipating the pleasure that was to come. They’d had a lifetime to know each other’s tells and favorite ways to be touched, but this… _this_ was precious. This passion between them followed years of patience, of longing, measured in all the words they could never say before, for all the times they couldn’t hold hands during the nickel matinee or wander onto the dance floor of a darkened club. This was recent, _so_ recent, but it was automatic. Natural. Instinctive.

“S’nice,” Steve hissed. His fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, making Bucky moan in approval, and the vibrations of his rough, deep voice traveled up Steve’s length. If Steve didn’t know better, he’d think Bucky was trying to kill him. Bucky took his sweet time, sprawled on his stomach with Steve beneath him, with his best guy’s long, tapered thighs splayed open in welcome. His firm, smooth skin felt so good under his hands. Bucky’s fingers gently ringed the base of Steve’s cock, letting his thumb slowly stroke the tightening, leathery ball of his sac. His mind was at rest, letting his thoughts slip away on a quiet wave of bliss and contentment. 

As if Steve had read Bucky’s mind, the words slipped from his mouth without filter or hesitation. “I’m all yours.”

Bucky nodded briefly, and he groaned again, lapping up the hint of saltiness that drifted over his tongue. Ownership didn’t need detailed description, and between the two of them, it damned well never needed to be _fancy_. Every bob of Bucky’s head pronounced _Mine_ , and Steven Grant Rogers was all ears.

When Bucky picked up the pace, Steve’s hands locked around his shoulders, and his head tipped back against the beach blanket. Pleasure tightened his flesh, turning it a rosy purple, and his skin felt alive with sensation and hot tingles. He bucked up into Bucky’s mouth, letting the head of his cock push down into his throat; Bucky’s fingers dug into Steve’s thigh and he kept swallowing him, urging him toward what they both needed. Steve’s voice couldn’t form words, just broken, urgent little gasps and cries as his abdomen drew itself taut. His face looked so wrecked and desperate. “ _Bucky_... oh, God…!”

He spilled down Bucky’s throat in a hot, salty, sticky flood. Bucky’s voice was garbled and hoarse as he swallowed Steve’s seed, indelicate, messy work. Little fireworks went off in Steve’s head as his climax rattled all the way down his spine. His hips jerked with the last few laps of Bucky’s tongue; a stray drop landed on his thigh, and Bucky dipped down to clean it off, making Steve jerk again, before he went completely boneless.

“That wasn’t fair,” Steve panted. “S’posed to let me catch up, not finish me off.”

“You liked it.” Bucky kissed his thigh, making Steve shiver. His limp cock twitched just to spite him. Both of them had shamefully short refractory periods, and Bucky knew damn well what he was doing, but Steve needed a breather. Steve’s hand circled Bucky’s upper arm and pulled him up to lie against him, so he could kiss that smug look off his face. (He failed miserably, but it was well worth the try.)

“Course I liked it. Jerk.”

“You’re welcome, then, punk.”

“Good thing the day’s still young.” Steve told him. Bucky’s hips thrust down against him, searching for him again, and Steve felt himself responding already. Bucky’s eyes stole blue from the cloudless sky, and his smile was fond, and soft, and filled with so much love for Steve. 

“Good thing.” 

Steve gave Bucky’s ass a light swat before he squeezed it. Bucky exhaled a chuckle and thrust down on him again, this time in earnest. Steve reached between hem and ringed Bucky’s erection in his fist. 

Despite Bucky’s earlier warnings about the need for sunscreen, they both ended up with sunburns and sand stuck in less than ideal places, and a few climaxes later, they were exhausted, raw and replete. 

“They’re never gonna let us use this beach again.”

“Don’t worry about it, Stevie. Hey, if they throw us out, let’s stop at that little shell shop we saw yesterday. They had some nice windchimes. Might make a nice souvenir.”


End file.
